


Radio Waves

by juniperproductions



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Radio, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 15:13:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20762435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juniperproductions/pseuds/juniperproductions
Summary: Hajime Hinata is a nighttime radio announcer for a station that broadcasts poetry, but his life is stuck in a rut and he dreads coming to his job every night. That is, until a mysterious anonymous poet catches his attention with an unnamed submission and turns his entire life upside down.





	1. The Man in the Broadcast Booth

**Author's Note:**

> This is a completed work with an upload schedule. HOWEVER, I want to add some fun epilogue chapters for your enjoyment, so if you think of something you'd like to see, please let me know! I hope you enjoy it!

“Thank you to all the listeners who tuned in again tonight, may we stumble across each other again. Goodnight.”

The faded red broadcasting light blinked off, and Hinata let out a relieved sigh. The first order of business was to toss the clunky black headphones on the table. The second, he decided, was to leave as fast as possible. Still, he couldn’t help but to take a moment to throw his head back and slump down in his chair, burying his face in his hands and rubbing at his eyes. They burned a bit already from the hours spent awake, staring at the station-provided laptop screen, and he could feel the blood pulsing behind them, thudding fists on the walls of his vessels. He let his hands fall, stared at the white spotted ceiling and the dancing dots that colored his eyes, then shoved himself out of the seat with a start, using what seemed like all of his energy just to get himself to his feet.

His heart dropped as the door swung open. In walked his producer, a small, rounded man with cropped, greying brown hair and glasses that slide down his nose when he talks too vigorously, which he makes a habit of (much to Hinata’s dismay).

“Another successful show, Hinata!” He slapped his arm with an overwhelming amount of force, causing Hinata to stumble forward and bump into the table, shaking it. Without seeming to notice, he continued. “You always manage to read things _just _right. You really have a knack for radio!”

_I don’t have a “knack”, I have 8 years of experience, _Hinata thought to himself. His voice came out a low mutter. “Thanks.”

Without looking at the loud, imposing figure in front of him, he made a beeline to his bag, shoving in the laptop and beginning to dig for his keys. Beyond all hope, he prayed for his producer to leave it at that, say his goodbyes, and disappear into the next day like he was planning on doing, but his boisterous booming continued.

“You know, Hinata, we really ought to advertise this show more. I think we could pull in a lot more listeners. We could do a press tour, maybe a couple TV spots, hell, maybe even a billboard! Think about it,” he dropped his voice, conspiring excitedly. “Your voice, lording over everyone on the route into town in _every_ town.”

“People don’t like poetry that much,” he murmured.

“But they could!” The producer slapped him on the back, still too hard and Hinata had to catch himself to keep from falling over.

He pulled himself upright, having fished his keys from his backpack and thrown it over his shoulder. “I don’t really want to do all of that. I don’t really want my face ‘lording over everyone on the route into town in every town.’” He shrugged. “I’m perfectly happy with how the show is going right now.”

As he said that, he knew it wasn’t entirely true. He hadn’t been happy in this god forsaken job in well over a year. If you do anything long enough it turns into sleepwalking.

The producer’s face stiffened slightly, the smile falling into a straight line. The creases on his forehead deepened, as did his tone as he said “My boy, you really ought to consider the future of this show. There are things you need to pay attention to.” His smile returned, but more cautiously. “Just give me the word, though, and I’ll get you everything you need!”

“Thank you, sir,” Hinata bowed slightly. “But I already have everything I need.”

Before the producer could wander into a minefield and step on another topic, Hinata rushed to the door and pushed his way out into the mostly deserted hallway. The corridor was lined with dirt, topped with fluorescents, and filled with the disgusting and visceral experience of both. The smell was subtle but somehow overwhelming, earthy and slightly sweat stained. He made his way to the fingerprint pocked glass doors at the front of the studio and pressed his way into the fading night. Slight hints of sunrise were already showing themselves over the rooves of the scattered cars in the parking lot.

Stumbling through the grey light, Hinata pulled himself into his car, jammed the keys roughly into the ignition, heard the old rust bucket sputter to life, and, with another tired sigh, drove off into the last clinging moments of the night.

The hike up to the apartment was marked by four infinitely steep sets of metal stairs, weaving back and forth across the hollowed space; a few lights buzzed along the walls, their posses of moths swimming around them dutifully. Hinata pushed through the fire door and rounded the corner, shuffling down the hallway to his front door. Unlocking it, he lets himself in.

He dragged himself over to his bed, swayed, then fell onto it with a soft thud. The springs sputtered. He slid his backpack off of his shoulders and dropped it over the edge onto the floor next to him, heard the thud of the laptop. Crawling further onto the mattress, he tossed the blankets over his body, and closed his eyes tightly, letting his head sink into the pillow. Thoughts swarmed his head, a low and indistinguishable hum with very few recognizable features. The most familiar of these was the one screaming how tired he is.

Still, his body refused to calm. He turned onto his side, then the other side, flopping onto his stomach then rolling onto his back, shifting his arms and legs in a dance with exhaustion that left him somehow more awake. Each turn somehow becomes more uncomfortable that the last.

Eventually he sat up and clicked on the lamp on his bedside table. The blackout curtains were doing their job, but a cool glow around its edge told him that the day was coming and coming fast. Frustration welled, hot in his chest. Checking the time, he saw it has been only about an hour, though that hour was poised as if swimming upstream and failing against the current, slipping slowly but steadily down the river anyway.

The beauties of the graveyard broadcast slot.

He leaned over the edge of the bed and pulled the station laptop from the bag, tossing it onto his lap. Shifting his body back, he leans against the wall behind the bed. A familiar screen greeted him when he swung open the lid. The viewer submissions page.

The station insisted that the best way to build a base of loyal listeners was to have most of the show devoted to their writing. Hinata, who had been seventeen when his job on the show started, had not considered how miserable of a task this would become. He supposed he’d been somewhat naïve in letting the producer convince him to become a co-host, and then a host, but it was money and he was at least decent at his job. He didn’t have a particularly special voice, but he was able to bullshit his way through most of the analysis, a skill he learned well in high school, and the audience (what little of it there was) seemed to buy it with blood. And those same listeners submitted poem after poem for Hinata to slog through. He very rarely saw even one that piqued his interest, especially after eight years.

He started at the top and scrolled through each poem, skimming most and skipping some entirely. Words blurred together; ideas spat at him indiscriminately.

He stopped. Leaned closer. Read.

_All the stars in all the skies,_   
_ their sparkling teeth,_   
_ their glaring eyes,_

_stare down on all the little ants,_   
_ point magnifiers,_   
_ watch them dance._

_Aloft the mountain, stare in glee_   
_ as gods cast down_   
_ magnanimity—_

_I await my turn in line,_   
_ cast in either role_   
_ I’d be fine._

_\- A.I._

His eyes hovered over the words. It was… good? Not great, not by any stretch of the imagination. But it was simplistic, lyrical almost. The last stanza is weak, sure, the rhyming is too simple and the word choice too direct, but there was something about it that made him pause. Something. _Something. _He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he marked it as “Read on Air,” and continued scrolling.

Hinata woke up with his laptop still open, the screen black. It had died while he slept. He was able to get about seven hours of sleep after his late-night leisure reading, and he had a few hours until his next broadcast started. Struggling against the tangle of blankets, he rose from bed and put the laptop on his nightstand, plugging it in to the nearest outlet to charge.

While making breakfast, he found his mind wandering back to that poem. His listeners tended to be wannabes—they tried too hard, picked words and images that made no sense. They likened love to a spatula or pain to a straw basket. Hinata spent too much time with his nose in a dictionary because his listeners spent too much of theirs in a thesaurus. It wasn’t a great poem, it was somewhat enjoyable at best, and the author—A.I.—certainly wasn’t publisher-ready material, so why was it sticking to him?

He pondered this over his coffee, taking slow sips and watching his cereal slowly dissolve. His phone buzzed, snapping his mind back to the moment. He looked at the caller ID. Producer.

“Hello,” he started, his voice sticking slightly with the still lingering grogginess. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Hello.”

“Hinata! I need you to come in a bit earlier starting in about two weeks. We have to discuss some things with the station manager, but he’s out of town on business until then.”

“Mmhmm,” he said, not registering the request fully. If he allowed himself to get frustrated about it now, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to say anything but a polite “fuck you” to this man, who just so happened to be his boss. Not a good look. So instead, he sighed and let his producer continue.

“Also, you need to select some more poems for tonight. We’re about six short.”

“I already went through all the submissions, I can just—”

“Pick six more. The listeners love it.” _A lot more than the other shit you read. _Okay, well fuck them.

“Alright. I’ll find some.”

“You can look at some of the submissions from the past couple days and pick from there, too, if you’re really pressed about it. We need to fill the air space.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t forget, two weeks. An hour early.”

“Okay.”

“You’ll get overtime pay.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t forget.”

“Alright, I won’t.”

“Okay, then, see you tonight for another great show!”

“See you then. Bye.”

The producer hung up, letting Hinata drop his phone to the table with a clatter.

“Now,” Hinata said, his voice my full and warm than usual. He let the character of the radio announcer take his place as he zoned out, sure to soon find himself wandering in an unfamiliar field of his mind, naming flowers he’d never seen before. He smiled, a red light blinking in the corner of the room. He remembered that his producer had told him as soon as he’d walked in the door that they would now be running a YouTube channel for his show. “To get a bigger audience.” Of fucking course, it was. The red glare let him know that people were watching, or at least they would be watching in about twelve hours’ time. He smiled because he had to.

“It’s time for everyone’s favorite portion of the show, user submissions. These daring people have graciously shared their writing with us, and I have personally chosen their works to be featured. As always, I’ll be reading the poem and giving my thoughts on it, then accepting calls from listeners who want to say their piece.” Hinata tried not to look at the camera, its glassy eye unblinking, so he instead turned to his laptop, the first poem open and ready for reading. “The first piece is called ‘Eye of the Storm’, by Ari Fukawa. Say, that name sounds familiar, I wonder if our author is in any way related to novelist Toko Fukawa? Maybe it’s a pen name. But, if the two are related, writing seems to run in the family. Without further ado…”

Hinata’s voice carried on without him, a skill grown from the labor of thousands of hours. He dropped to a whisper when the words felt small, and grew infinitely larger when they rose, like waves rocking to a steady lyrical tempo. He could understand why people enjoyed his reading, but he could always hear a hollowness in his own voice when a poem’s voice didn’t harmonize.

He finished his reading, letting the silence linger a moment. “Don’t hesitate too long,” his former co-host, Mori, had said smugly. “Don’t want them to think you died from how horrible it was.” Somehow, he had hated this show more than Hinata, and was gone within a year or his arrival. People initially held a lot of animosity towards Hinata, because he had dared to replace the show’s creator. The last thing he needed was an ego inflation, but when someone sent a lock of their hair to him and, in the same breath, threatened to bomb the station all he did was laugh and say, “That’s show business, baby!” It didn’t take long for the audience to forget him. Hinata’s youthful voice and sense of humor won them over without much resistance and, thankfully, no bombs. That’s show business, baby.

He sighed, easing the silence out. “Wow, what a piece. There were a lot of really unique details I noticed that the author used very well. Speaking of the author, let’s read the their submission notes.”

“’I wanted to submit this poem because my life has always felt like it has existed at the eye of a storm. Around me, everything is spinning out of control, and all I do is keep moving, taking in the chaos as I go. But at the same time, since I’m surrounded by chaos I can’t exist without it, and it’s hard to reach people when I’m surrounded by such a violent aura. I hope that I can hear your thoughts on this, since I’m such a fan of your show. Much love, Ari Fukawa.’ Well, thank you Ari, that is very sweet of you to say.” For a moment, his voice becomes more boyish and playful. Then, he sinks back into his smooth cadence. “And I think that your poem expressed this feeling very well. The motif of the storm…” his words even out, business as usual. Chaos, huh. It’s a good idea, strong, but way too well tread to be original, especially with how cheesy the whole thing is. It’s hard to take a poet seriously when they describe an infinite state of unrest with the phrase “kind of crazy, never lazy, a world of ideas foggy and hazy.” It’s juvenile. But the words out of his mouth, instead, are words of humble thanks. Thanks for sharing your thoughts, your writing, your creativity. Thank you for listening, thank you for submitting. Thank you for spewing your bullshit. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Poem after poem, the same empty thank you. Caller after caller with prewritten responses in order to sound smart, so many people calling in “anonymously” to compliment work that is “definitely not theirs” and call the author the next Homer or some fucking reach. It’s exhausting. But the smile stays on his face. For the camera. For the listeners. Mostly for the paycheck.

And his heart skips when he sees the next poem. An unnamed, anonymous submission from someone going by the initials A.I. He’d been looking forward to this. His breath caught for a moment, and he had to force it out. His mind stalled, unable to conjure the words to introduce the poem. In that moment, he realized he didn’t want to share it, he wanted it all to himself. But the silence was creeping up on him. _Don’t hesitate too long, _the voice echoed in his head. Fractions of a second were precious on the air.

“Our last piece is an unnamed submission from someone who signed their work ‘A.I.’” His heart wasn’t beating particularly fast, but he noticed every pulsing thud in every part of his body. _Calm down. It’s not even that good. Just read it. _“Thank you, A.I. You know, AI refers to artificial intelligence, which almost makes me laugh.” He forced out a light chuckle, trying to trick his body into relaxing. “Because the thing I noticed most about this poem was how human and honest it felt. But that’s for later. Let’s start by reading it.”

He stared at the words on the screen, letting his eyes dance between them. Suddenly, the letters became incomprehensible shapes, but still his lips moved knowingly. In a moment of unreality, he was sure he was losing his mind. _It’s average at best! Relax._ He didn’t.

When his tongue finally stumbled across the familiar final syllables, he pulled himself back to reality. He felt the redness grow in his cheeks, trying to stuff it down. _Damn it, _he scolded himself silently. _I never mess up my readings. _“Well, listeners, I think that for such a short poem it’s clear that the author has a lot to say about the nature of tragedy and loneliness.” His voice waivered. Get it together. “The structure is clean, and the imagery is strong, wouldn’t you say? The idea of distant, watching eyes—” he glances at the camera, then pulls his eyes back, shaking his head. “—creates a powerful image of an uncaring deity. Waiting to see you fail. You are next in a long line of disappointments. You are nothing to them.” Anger. Where is the anger coming from?

Breathe. Calm down.

_What are you doing?_

Calm down. Fuck.

He lowers his voice, trying to cool the rising temperature of his words. “It’s a… a strong… image… if somewhat weakly said.”

_What am I saying? I’m not supposed to_ actually_ criticize the listener submissions. _The producer had warned him not to be harsh on the listener pieces after one incident where the author had complained to the station manager and put the producer on probation for “failing to properly monitor content.” Not to mention that actual criticism keeps people from submitting again.

He could feel himself getting flustered and began imagining the worst. His breathing shortened, and the panic started to contort his face. He struggled against the growing tightness in his chest and swallowed, trying to clear the way for something else to say. Be nice. Say the nice things. Don’t mess this up.

“The, uh, the,” he cleared his throat again, and his voice evened out slightly. “The word choice manages to be both accessible in terms of level of understanding and complex in terms of how it’s used within the structure, though this falters a bit at the end.”

What. The. Fuck.

The little semblance of control he had begun to feel suddenly slipped loose; whatever rope that was tied to his harness had snapped. He was falling.

_Stop talking, go to the phones. _His experience took over, and he was able to cut in on his own mind. “Overall, it’s a great piece, thank you A.I. Let’s see what the other listeners have to say about it!” Click. A phone call, someone talking. Their voice is distant, muted, somewhere underwater. Or is he underwater? He slapped his hands to his face, feeling his hot cheeks. He closed his eyes to keep them from being open too wide, looking like a deer in headlights. He was aware of the camera, but he couldn’t lift his head out of his hands, afraid it would roll right off his shoulders. He almost wished it would. As the caller began to slow in their explanation, Hinata began interjecting more “uh huhs” and “mmhmms” to convince them that he was still listening.

He’s started to talk again, but he didn’t know what he was saying. Calls continued to roll in, and he picked them up, let them ramble, let them feel important, meanwhile he sat trying to zip up whatever dead thing he just awoke. He turned off the mic for a moment, just breathing, or at least trying to. By the time all his callers had worn themselves out, he had mostly regained his composure. Never before in all his miserable years at the station had he ever wanted to leave faster. By the time the producer had walked the two-door gap to the room and pushed open the door, Hinata had already sprinted out of the studio and burst into the cold dawn air.

Unsurprisingly, he got a call on the way home. He reluctantly picked up.

“Hinata!” the familiar voice boomed from other side, enthusiasm poorly masking a hint of anger. “Where did you go? I wanted to talk to you about your show tonight.”

“Ah, s-sorry, I was feeling kind of sick, so I wanted to get home.”

His voice lifted a little bit, though a hint of darkened doubt still hung over them both. “Oh, alright! Well, I don’t want you to make yourself sick, but that… last poem.” There was a pause. Silence was so rare with the producer. Being in radio, he was not a fan of dead air.

“Sorry.”

More silence. Flatly: “Whatever that was, never again.”

“Understood.”

“Good.”

The lights whirred by outside Hinata’s car. A few raindrops threw themselves on his windshield. He thought he could feel the steady rotation of the earth. He was hurtling.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Hinata. Get some rest.”

“Thank you, sir.” The phone line clicked. Dead.

Hinata looked down at the phone in his hand, watching the screen go black again as “call ended” faded away. He took a deep breath and tossed his phone into the passenger seat, looking up in time to see a red light.

He slammed on the brakes, his tires squealing and jerking against the asphalt, as yet another surprise greeted him. A garbage truck, much larger than his beat-up compact car, blew through the intersection.

It took him until he was lightheaded to realize he hadn’t been breathing. He felt the sweat slowly trekking down his cheeks. He forced himself to blink, consciously reminded himself to close his mouth, swallow, breathe. In the silence, he realized he hadn’t remembered to turn on the radio when he got in the car.

At some point while Hinata was asleep, the producer had uploaded the video of the show highlights to the brand-new YouTube channel, though parts of clips were conspicuously missing or dubbed over, specifically the last five or so minutes when he had lost his cool. Instead, there was audio of the conversation over unused footage from earlier in the broadcast. It was surprisingly well matched, especially since the mic frequently covered his lips. You almost wouldn’t notice it.

But of course, Hinata knew. And there was something else that he knew that no one else did.

The sound of his voice. His own voice. It sounded so different than the rest of the show so, to him, it stuck out like a rusty nail, though he doubted anyone else could tell. When he was reading the last poem, his radio voice had faltered. It was still smooth, light, expressive and interested, but it wasn’t Radio Hajime, it was him.

He sat in bed and closed his eyes, listened to that part of the broadcast over and over, trying to figure out what happened. It was a simple poem. Written well enough, but nothing special.

And why did he lose his _fucking _mind and start criticizing it? Nerves? He hadn’t been nervous on air in years, at the very least not since high school. But nothing like this had ever happened before.

_A.I. Are those your initials? _He turned the letters over in his head. _Who are you?_

A few more days passed with no incident, and no more poems from the mysterious author. Things returned to normal. The hours passed more and more slowly until they once again felt like a slog. The producer seemed more than happy to forget what had happened, and the station didn’t receive any complaints. Hinata, however, couldn’t help but feel like he’d scared A.I. off. It ached a little to think he’d lost a listener because of whatever was wrong with him that day. He pretended to be content thinking he’d eaten spoiled sushi that had temporarily made him lose his mind. What else could it have been?

That made it all the more jarring when, Friday morning, he woke up to another submission by the mysterious A.I.

He hesitated.

What if he hated it? Then he could probably move on and be done. But it would hurt. As stupid as it seemed, it would feel like a betrayal.

But what if he liked it? Or even loved it? Then it could happen again. And he couldn’t afford that.

He skipped the poem and continued reading the other submissions. He deleted some, selected others, set others aside for another day if he got desperate, until it was just A.I. and him, alone, staring back at each other on an otherwise blank webpage. He closed the laptop and set it aside.

The radio show went off without a hitch, but Hinata couldn’t get the poem out of his mind. Again.

He had to know. He had the weekend to himself, since a different (more popular) broadcast aired in his time slot on the weekends, so he could just read it and decide over the next couple days.

When he got home, he resolved himself to sleep, but once again found himself unable to stop the whirling in his head. _This is ridiculous_, he told himself. _I should just read it and get it over with._

He yanked the laptop out of him bag, and it dawned on him just how much free rent this had been taking up in his head for almost a week, and he still couldn’t quite understand why. He propped the computer up in his lap and opened the lid. The submissions page was already open, as usual, and a few more had come in, so he had to scroll past them in order to get to the one he couldn’t get out of his mind.

This one, unlike the previous submission, was titled. The Lotto. A little cliché. He chuckled to himself. Maybe he had overestimated A.I. After all, he wasn’t a master. It was possible that the way he’d written was simply a fluke. As his eyes scanned the lines, he realized that he was wrong.

_An oaken spine holds aloft my head,_  
_beneath the hourglass I’m led_  
_ by hand to face his sunken form,_  
_ embraces cold, misted breath warm._  
  
_ I skin the tree and peel its flesh,_  
_ carve numbers in the space it left_  
_ submit my lotto to the brook,_  
_ for Earth to steal, a whimsied crook._  
  
_ He spends my riches, has them mugged_  
_ saunters streets—dismal, drugged;_  
_ skin caked in deluded mud and tree_  
_ his oceans wander back to me._  
  
_ Roused anew by needled rain,_  
_ coerced to carve my hopes again,_  
_ return them to the current drift_  
_ to give willingly a reluctant gift._

_Fuck. _He sighed to himself. _It’s… it’s better. _

He could still go through and pick it apart line by line, find things wrong, poke holes in its weaknesses. It would have been stronger with a more consistent meter, even though the syllables largely match-up between stanzas. The rhymes are relatively simple, as is the structure.

But what he couldn’t do was get his heart to slow down, or get his body to move, or pry his eyes away.

Until they drifted to the author’s notes.

_Hinata, _

_Thank you for reading my previous poem on air and thank you for your honesty as well. Your opinion means the world to me. _

_With love, _

_A.I._

His fingers tingled as they hovered over the keys. What would _he _write if he could describe this feeling? _A gentle acid, diluted within his own sweat, warm and swelling._ _The overwhelming physics of dancing atoms charged and drifting. The pin pricks of static, radio static doodling shapes in his brain. _It was all bullshit. None of it made sense.

He marked it as “Read on Air,” rolled over, and drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. I know my poetry isn't good but I'm the one writing it here so you're just gonna have to bear with me.


	2. The Lottery Winner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hinata prepares for his next show with the still raw nerves of his mistakes weighing on him-- but that's not the only thing he has to worry about now.

Hinata spent the next two days fielding calls from the producer and practicing reading the poem aloud. He started to doubt himself.

He made himself dizzy pacing back and forth across the floors, trying to desensitize his nerves to the coiling vibrations that pulsed through him every time he read it. He wrote out an explanation, tried reading it aloud and making it sound natural, but he couldn’t quite get the words right. _It sounds fake._ As Monday night rolled back around, Hinata was forced to shove the laptop back in his backpack and go to work completely unsure of whether this would be the night he was fired. As he pulled into the parking lot, he almost considered driving away again. _They probably wouldn’t miss me._

Reluctantly, he marched inside and greeted his coworkers with a nod as he passed, making his way to his assigned booth, the only other place you can find him apart from his fourth-floor shit hole. He settled into his chair, sinking into the familiar shape of it, its fake leather worn out in the shape of his body. He thought of it almost like a gravestone—here lies Hajime Hinata.

He breathed deeply and tried to push the worry out of his mind as much as it would allow, which, admittedly, was not very far. Still, by the time he received the signal for the show to start, he found himself more at ease. This was something he knew.

“Hello, my lovely listeners, my name is Hajime Hinata and we’re going to have a lot of fun tonight. Whether you’re tuning in from the 24/7 convenience store or the comfort of your own room, there’s a world of words out there, and we’re out excavating it tonight. Together.” Familiar.

At times, it seemed like the first half of each hour (which was usually his favorite, because he got to decide what to talk about) was the longest and most miserable half hour, only to be topped by the second half hour, only to be topped again by the next hour, all the way to the end of the broadcast. He found himself watching the clock, constantly checking during breaks, not sure if he would survive the dread that was heaving in his chest. It was 3:47 a.m. when the poem showed up on his screen. The last one, again, because he figured that if the poet had heard him read the first submission at the end of the first show, then they would probably be tuning in at the same time.

“Alright, everyone, we’re coming up on the end of the show, but we have time for one more listener submission. This is from our old friend, A.I. It’s good to hear from you again.” He noticed a slight pain in his cheeks, and realized he was smiling. “A.I. was so kind as to name their poem this time. The Lotto, an intriguing and fitting choice. I love the way this poem discusses luck, and… well, we’ll get to that. Let’s read it now.”

He turned his head and cleared his throat away from the mic, trying to give his voice as much headway as possible before the inevitable feeling of swelling started again. He took another deep breath, let his voice change, and once again found himself intrigued by the familiarity of the strangers’ words, not because he had read it countless times in order to prepare, but simply because he was sure that they had been uttered to him by his own subconscious at some point in a dream.

As his voice fell with the final line, he let out a silent sigh of relief. Now, all he had to do was read his notes.

But when he looked down at them, he realized how very little they made sense to him now. In that moment he made a decision and closed the laptop quietly. Closing his eyes, he recited the first stanza from memory.

“’_An oaken spine holds aloft my head/beneath the hourglass I’m led/by hand to face his sunken form, /embraces cold, misted breath warm.’ _This is…” he sighed, remembering the first line of his prepared speech. _This is a clear reference to death, and the familiarity, to all of us, of its shape and form. _“This expresses a fear. A fear I think we all face. A fear that in our moments of peace, perhaps sitting beneath a tree in a meadow, we will meet death. But more fearful than meeting death is not being afraid of it. What was our life worth if we aren’t scared to leave it behind? However, maybe there is peace is waiting to be led to death in a time of happiness, peace, and contentment. The imagery of a resting figure being drawn up by a familiar entity and pulled into its arms is… kind.”

He closed his eyes, leaned his head back, as if to sleep, let the sleepwalking take over.

“_’I skin the tree and peel its flesh, /carve numbers in the space it left_’ seems to tie together the act of carving one’s name in a tree—with a lover, a friend, maybe even a familiar entity—” he emphasized, letting the ideas hang in the air unchallenged. “And the choosing of lottery numbers. This is an interesting link to make, especially in referencing the life of the tree itself. I’m… honestly not sure what to make of this,” he laughed. “Maybe it’s just talking about how everyone is hoping to get lucky at the expense of others.” He heard the smile creeping into his voice. He paused. “Get your mind out of the gutter,” a jokingly scolding tone taking hold of his voice.

_“’Submit my lotto to the brook, /for Earth to steal, a whimsied crook_.’ This is such an interesting line. I suppose it’s referencing letting the universe have control of your luck, but in the end having to watch your hopes squandered. Yet, there’s something funny about it. It’s a sort of dark humor that I have to appreciate.”

“_’He spends my riches, has them mugged/ saunters streets—dismal, drugged;/ skin caked in deluded mud and tree/ his oceans wander back to me._’ I like the continuation of this motif into the next few stanzas. I think it helps to universalize this core idea, that the person with the luck always end up being the unlucky targets of… of, well, life. That luck is always stolen. The lucky earth here is robbed and drugged, only able to return with ‘mud’ and ‘trees’. Now, if there are any young children listening, it may be the time to plug your ears for the moment. Okay? Good. Mud and trees are both slang terms for drugs. Having fallen from grace, people will turn to whatever they can find to make them feel okay, to feel whole again. To have that luck return. Maybe even a lottery.” He shifts in his seat, his body getting restless. He feels his heart beating, but this time he doesn’t feel nervous. He’s buzzing. Electrified.

“_Then we return to our subject. ‘Roused anew by needled rain, / coerced to carve my hopes again, / return them to the current drift/ to give willingly a reluctant gift_.’ This makes me wonder about our dear A.I. because this feels very personal. A reluctant gift… this isn’t getting underwear from your grandma during the holidays, this is luck. So why is luck something you are reluctant to have and willing to give away? It’s curious. But I suppose it speaks to a part of us that worries that the best moments will slip away in order to return the balance, and yet we are forced to accept this cycle. This good and bad, this depression and euphoria.” He laughs again. “Needless to say, I’m intrigued. ‘_Coerced to carve my hopes again’._ I suppose this is an encouragement of sorts. Maybe one we all need sometimes.” He sat up slowly and rested his elbows on the table, leaning into the mic and dropping his voice. “Maybe just a reminder that we have no choice but to hope.” He smiled. “Now to the first caller.”

The following days of the week, he found himself looking forward to these random submissions from A.I. All of them thanked him for continuing to air his work, to look so deeply at it, and all of them were signed with those familiar, mysterious letters. _A.I._

Yet the mystery was part of the fun. This… A.I. was one of the few people who actually let Hinata criticize his work. He actually thanked him more profusely when he did. And the next poem was always different, clearly applying whatever Hinata had said. It was fun. He felt like A.I. was his student, his _only _student, and all the other poems were just packing peanuts to insulate their interactions. By the time the weekend rolled around, he was reluctant to stay home, too wrapped up in this new, invigorating energy to stay put.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had decided to go out and do something on the weekend. His high school friends, if you could call them that, had all long since moved on and moved out. He had been working at the same place at the same time for eight years, and his hours weren’t exactly conducive to nights on the town, or evenings at the library, or mornings at the coffee shop.

Or dates. Hinata hadn’t dated since his junior year of high school, just before he started his job. And things fell apart quickly with him working overnight and going to school during the day. They were still civil, but she had quickly moved on. He hadn’t bothered to think about how lonely this job had made him.

He still had to actively maintain his work sleep schedule, so when he woke up at a little after noon, he decided to just go out and take a walk. The air was chilling with the changing of the seasons, so even though the sun was out and bright, he still found himself cold enough to duck into a coffee shop. It was busy, as he realized it was likely lunch time, so after he ordered he found himself standing awkwardly in the center of the coffeeshop looking at a room packed with taken tables.

“You can sit here,” a voice called from behind him, accompanied by a light tap on his shoulder.

He turned and saw a woman gesturing to a two-person table with a laptop and a coffee cup already sitting on it.

He was startled and started bumbling over his words, unsure of whether to accept until the decision had already exited his lips. “Ah, uh, I’m just, uh… thanks.” He found himself sitting down with this woman, unsure of what was happening or why he’d agreed in the first place.

She smiled, though it was awkward and stiff, as if she hadn’t quite learned how to do it. “My name is Peko Pekoyama.”

She was rather pretty. She had silver hair that she wore in a set of twin braids, naturally pink lips, and shocking red eyes. She moved fluidly when she sat down and seemed completely at ease. Maybe this was luck.

“H-Hajime Hinata. Thank you, Pekoyama-san.” There was tension in his shoulders, and he felt his neck stiffen.

Her brows raised slightly at this, almost shocked, but well managed. She didn’t seem the type to be much surprised by anything. Her face softened. “Oh, was a lucky surprise!”

Hinata was confused by this. Peko Pekoyama… could they know each other? He was sure he would have remembered her if they had met before. She was memorable if only because she emanated a complicated energy—a mixture of calm ease and confidence, and a second, surely threatening one. They left him conflicted. He felt completely comfortable sitting in front of her, yet wary about turning his back.

“I’m… I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean?” He cupped his coffee tighter, afraid that if he failed to concentrate on it for a moment, he would let it slip from his hands.

Suddenly, a surprisingly open expression crossed her face, not at all masked by her cool demeanor. Embarrassment. “Oh, uh, I’m so sorry, not I don’t think we’ve met.” He could see her neck redden slightly, but she didn’t otherwise seem too perturbed by her own forwardness. “No, I’m sure we haven’t. Rather, I recognize your name.”

Oh. A fan. For a moment he felt disappointed.

But then he wondered.

_Could she be…?_

He allowed himself to hope for a moment. A.I.’s words entered his brain, began bouncing around. Suddenly, he felt _very _coerced to carve his hopes.

He smiled, trying to make it appear natural, uneager, relaxed, but also unsuspicious and fearless. It did not come across that way, instead looking strained and uncomfortable, though Peko seemed to either not notice or not care.

“Oh, are you a listener?” She nodded, silent. He paused, expecting her to say more, but she didn’t. In an effort to fill the space, he pushed on to his next question, the one he really wanted to ask.

“Have you submitted your work before?”

_Don’t get your hopes up, _he chanted to himself. There was only a moment of silence before she answered as she sipped her coffee, pondering, but to him it felt like an eternity.

“Yes.”

His heart fluttered. He tried to swallow it back. “Oh, which piece? I may remember it, though I have to admit I don’t have the best memory…” he said, trying to force himself to stay calm. But maybe this was his luck. Maybe this was what that poem was all about. Maybe this was about his fate, his destiny.

“Eye of the Storm.” She said coolly. “You read it last week. I submitted it under a pen name.”

His heart sank. He did remember her, but she was not A.I. Why had he allowed himself to hope?

_Why did you care enough to hope in the first place?_

He maintained his composure. Show business. Make friends, make fans, make money. He laughed. “Ah, yes, I do! You used the name, uh, Fukawa, right?” His eyes scrunched as he widened his smile, trying to hide the sinking feeling behind a playful façade, the one she would recognize. He had let himself be vulnerable for a moment too long.

She managed a slightly less strained smile, “Ah, yes! Ari Fukawa, that’s me. I didn’t want my name out there, because poetry isn’t, uh, well, it isn’t really accepted in my line of work. Regardless, I wanted to thank you for reading it. I—” she stopped, contemplating whether to say her next words. A hint of giddy embarrassment tinted her cheeks pink. He glasses rose with her smile. It was cute, almost making her more attractive, but Hinata was already distracted. “I actually just really wanted to hear it in your voice. I know I’m not a great author, but you still manage to make everything sound profound. You pointed out things in my poem I would have never thought to include consciously.” She broke eye contact, letting her eyes fall as she almost whispered the next part. “You made me sound a lot smarter than I actually am. It gave me some much-needed confidence. Thank you.”

Hinata was snapped back to the present moment. This was a real person, not just a listener or a fan, and he had helped her just by reading what she had written. Guilt pounded against his heart. He realized he needed to stop looking through the lens of disappointment that she wasn’t someone who she hadn’t even realized he thought she was, and instead just put the camera down and look at her real, undistorted face.

He smiled, embarrassed, though much more obviously so than her. “Oh, uh, it’s nothing. It’s just my job.” Shit, that sounds mean. “I mean, in the sense that I love reading what people submit and helping them find the best in their own work, in themselves. You had some really great ideas.”

Her whole body rose at that, eyes wide and back suddenly even more straight. “Really?” There was a glow in her voice, and he recognized that buzz. It was pure elated surprise.

This energy was contagious. “Yeah, absolutely! I’d love to see you submit again.”

She almost gasped. “Oh, wow, that’s, uh that means so much to me!” Then hesitation crawled in, and he could see her relaxed excitement suddenly become paralyzed, bitten. Without thinking, Hinata cocked his head, questioning. “Um, actually,” she suddenly became small again, her voice shrinking and tightening. “Would you be willing to help me with something?”

A hint of wariness entered Hinata’s mind. He didn’t like favors. Maybe it was just the good mood or the fresh air or the $4 coffee, but he nodded in agreement.

“I, uh… this is embarrassing,” she laughed awkwardly. “I have this… friend. He’s very important to me. And I, uh, I wanted to…”

She struggled to find the words. Hinata was sure he knew what she was going to say but was himself afraid to say it. Would it startle her? But he knew it would probably be best for her to find the words herself, because she was the one who needed to acknowledge it and let it be real. He felt her fear, her anxiety, let it swim laps in the air between them. Hinata sat silent, unmoving. There was an uncertain weight on her, he could see it teetering. But she needed to be able to say it.

“I wanted to ask him out.” There was a surprising degree of certainty in her voice. She’d found it, found the words, spoken it. It was real now, at least for her. There was no going back. “And I wanted to give him this.” She bent down to her bag and pulled out a notebook, flipping to a scribbled page somewhere in the middle. All across it were lines and words crossed out, erased, arrows moving around stanzas. It was a mess. He smiled. These were familiar, the things he liked about poetry in the first place.

He began reading it, letting her interjections of “I know it’s not very good,” and “I don’t know if I should,” fall to the wayside unaddressed. As he reached the end, he looked up at her. She was staring expectantly. He wondered if this was what he had looked like when he had asked his teachers for their input on his writing, and silently believed that, yes, it was.

“Peko,” he started. He could feel her holding her breath. “This is lovely. I mean it.” She reluctantly let out a gasp of air, though she remained rigid and wary. “I am honestly impressed. Your previous submission was good. There are very rarely truly bad submissions on my show,” he laughed. “Though, admittedly, I’m not really allowed to criticize them anyway.”

“Oh, I see.” She still held to her nervousness, but it was slowly subsiding.

“But the reason most of the poems that are submitted aren’t… aren’t as good as they could be is because people only submit what _they think _I want to read. It’s usually pompous, overworked, haughty.” That’s why A.I. was different. “But this… this is honest. And you… well you don’t need someone else to tell you whether or not your feelings are real, do you? This is proof enough,” he said, gesturing to the page.

She sat silent, pondering.

He recognized how vulnerable she must have been feeling in that moment and felt a pang. It was beautiful. He wondered if that’s what made some people like poetry in the first place.

He grabbed her hand, and she flinched, became rigid, then let out a calming breath.

“I could sit with any number of professional poets and read their work and see how shallow it is. I could pick it apart for days. Hell, that’s what I get paid to do, at least for 50% of my show,” he shrugged, trying to put her at ease, though she remained reluctant. “But this is something I could never criticize, never change, because this is 100% the reason poetry exists in the first place.”

With that, she released. And smiled. Truly smiled. He didn’t know if he had expected her to cry, but she didn’t, just nodded.

On his walk home, he turned her poem over in his head.

_We were planted side by side_  
_by parents who controlled the tide,_  
_ you were told to take the lead,_  
_ and I, commanded, “protect this seed”._  
  
_ And so I did, I bore the wind—_  
_ bent nearer to you, wore you pinned_  
_ to my sleeve where hearts should be_  
_ and kept you close on bended knee._  
  
_ Yet somehow, ordered left and right_  
_ to help you kill the deadly night,_  
_ what I found for you was life_  
_ that we had carved with bloody knife._  
  
_ Now you are ruler, I am sword,_  
_ I submit myself to my young lord,_  
_ but if he submits in return,_  
_ this sapling could, yet, love and learn._

The rhyming was simple, the structure, too. The metaphors were common, beginner level. The meter was basic and uninventive. But he’d never seen a love poem submitted to his station that had made him feel like he understood someone so completely.

Peko was simple, strong willed, a protector. She existed in the center of chaos and couldn’t reach people. _Except now, she had reached one._

He looked down at the paper in his hand, with her name and phone number scribbled on it.

_Well, two._

Sunday night, Hinata received a text from the producer.

_Don’t forget to come in early starting tomorrow._

Right, the station owner. They’d apparently had a lot of business to discuss. Though he’d been dreading this, the past week and especially the weekend had all but wiped it from his mind. And he couldn’t turn down a little extra pay.

He was in somewhat high spirits, relatively speaking, when he walked into the conference room at seven on Monday to already see the producer and owner whispering to each other at the head of the table.

“Come, have a seat,” the producer said, gesturing to the chair next to him. He found it odd that he didn’t want Hinata to sit next to the station owner, but the intimidating aura of this strange, business-suit clad man did not encourage a sense of rebellion, so he complied.

As Hinata approached, the man stood up and take a shallow bow, which he returned with a much deeper one before taking his seat.

“Hajime Hinata, this is the station owner, Mr. Togami, former head of the Togami Empire. Though the business now belongs to his son, Byakuya, he still owns many businesses, including this station.”

The man sat unflinching as the producer showered on continuous praise, and Hinata nodded along politely.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Togami.”

“Pleasure,” he said shortly, showing a cold smile.

The producer continued. “We wanted to talk to you about your show.” Hinata stared at him as he spoke, afraid to look too long at the imposing figure at the head of the table for fear he might burst into flames. “He and I both think there’s a lot of potential for audience growth, but it is not drawing in the numbers—”

“Or revenue,” Togami said sharply.

“—or revenue,” the producer amended, “that we at the station are hoping to see from you. You listeners are generally very devoted, but your reluctance to advertise has kept your base very small, and it takes money to run a show, even one with so little additional upkeep as your own. Licenses, broadcast time, equipment, paychecks, all of that depends on how well each show does. And…” he trailed off, as if losing his nerve.

“And you aren’t paying your piece.”

Hinata’s chest tightened. He couldn’t think of anything to say. It was true, he had repeatedly turned down advertising spots and outright refused to do donation drives as frequently as the producer had requested. And, now, he felt, it was time for that to bite him in the ass. Restore the balance.

_submit my lotto to the brook,_

“So the owner and I have been discussing, and we decided that we need you to step up, or we’re going to have to make some adjustments to your show.”

Togami scoffed, indignant. “Your producer is being much too lenient with his words. You have two weeks to fall into line or I’m afraid the show will be cancelled.”

_for Earth to steal, a whimsied crook_

This was a cruel joke. It had to be. Just a few weeks ago, this meeting would have been a blessing. He’d have had a reason to leave, and he could have shown Mr. Bigshot his middle finger and told him to go fuck himself for the next two weeks while he drove the show into the ground, still collecting his paychecks. But now, he realized, he wanted this show to continue more than ever. He had A.I. and Peko. He had two students of his own, people he knew who listened to him and were vulnerable with him and wanted this show to continue, _needed _it to continue.

_He spends my riches, has them mugged,_

Hinata nodded as if to understand, but he didn’t. How could he have not seen this coming? How could he have been so high on his own ego that he didn’t realize that he was in trouble? So distracted by his own dissatisfaction that he ran this red light and got flattened by a garbage truck?

_ saunters streets—dismal, drugged;_

They continued talking to him, but he hardly registered anything they were saying. _God damnit, just as I was… _Was what? Falling in love? With what? With who? He didn’t know who A.I. was. It could have been anybody. An old man, a child, a group of people, an actual computer. For all he knew, A.I. was just someone who stumbled across the website and wanted someone to acknowledge them.

_skin caked in deluded mud and tree_

Did he… did he love A.I.? He couldn’t. He didn’t know anything about them. Yet he felt like he knew everything and still wanted to know more. Could he lose them so easily?

_his oceans wander back to me._

He felt the producer kick his leg. “Hinata, are you listening?” said the menacing voice at the head of the table.

_Roused anew by needled rain,_

Hinata nodded. “Yeah, sorry, this is just a lot to take in.” The producer nodded solemnly, as if to comfort him, tell him to take his time, but Togami seemed to be in a much greater rush to finish his business here and get out. Just another tornado.

_coerced to carve my hopes again,_

“Well, it’s not over yet. The YouTube channel is doing fairly well, and we may be able to draw in some ad revenue from that once we get the numbers. And we have a donation drive planned for this week. Here is the script we want you to read at the start of every hour.” He slid a paper across the table. Hinata didn’t remember him getting it out in the first place, just another random, misplaced event. “And we want to do some advertisements, so I’ve sent you an email and I want you to look it over and make an effort to show up to the things we have scheduled. Okay?” Hinata nodded.

_return them to the current drift_

“It’s not over,” he said again. It felt over. Why did he need two weeks to slowly watch everything die? How pointless was that?

He agreed to everything.

_ to give willingly a reluctant gift._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be released tomorrow, then following that, the rest of the chapters will be released weekly. I hope you are enjoying the story so far and, once again, please make requests for what bonus chapters you'd like to see.


	3. The Woman With All the Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hinata is now facing a more serious threat-- the loss of his job and the cancellation of his show entirely, all without yet knowing who the mysterious A.I. is. Yet things are not as smooth sailing on that front either, as Hinata continues to question what his feelings are for A.I.

Two weeks. It floated through his brain throughout the entire show. He couldn’t get it to stop circling.

There was no submission from A.I. this week. Someone had submitted a poem under their initials, but it was really different. Too different to be them. And people had started realizing that their poems were being read frequently. Comments had shown up on the YouTube videos mentioning it. Some people thought it was cool, others were angry. One caller rang in screaming because their poem hadn’t been read once, but A.I. had been discussed five times in the past two weeks since their first submission. Hinata apologized and explained that he didn’t look at authors until he had already decided whether to read it on air. He encouraged the listener to keep writing and submitting, and the writer responded with a few choice words, a threat, and a slammed phone. Hinata smiled through everything, because the camera meant more tonight than it ever had in the past.

He ended his show with one last call for donations, then drove home. The producer didn’t talk to him after the show and didn’t call him on his way home, but sure enough, there was an email with a list of dates and times, most of them in the morning. He realized how little sleep he would be getting if he wanted to keep the show.

And surprisingly, he did.

The first thing on his schedule was for Tuesday morning at eight: a photoshoot and interview for a local writing magazine. They had apparently been wanting to schedule a spot for months, and since Hinata had consistently turned them down, were ecstatic to find out that he finally had time for them. Hinata, on the other hand, was not. He got two hours of restless sleep before he had to go to the shoot and would likely not get home until he was normally waking up. That left him a few hours before his show that night, and he still had to pick out poems to read.

Not to mention he should probably look for a job.

On the plus side, the producer agreed to drive him to the shoot because they both needed to go anyway, and Hinata’s apartment was on the way. He was outside for no more than two minutes before the producer pulled up to pick him up.

He looked warily at the building that Hinata was standing in front of but didn’t say anything. He realized that the producer didn’t know anything about him except that he read poetry and rarely left the house. Meanwhile, Hinata found himself feeling particularly out of place in the producer’s luxury car.

It was silent for most of the drive, save for the radio which was, of course, tuned in to one of the station’s morning broadcasts.

“Thank you for agreeing to this,” he finally said, his voice less enthusiastic than usual, more sincere.

Hinata didn’t feel like he could accept that. He didn’t much have a choice. “I mean,” he shrugged, “with all due respect, sir, it was this or unemployment.” And it still could be.

An awkward lull hung as the radio announcer continued talking enthusiastically about the stock market and traffic. “I know.” He sounded almost apologetic.

Hinata sighed. “This was my fault in the first place. I should have just done this stuff when you asked me too.”

He shook his head. “Radio is a tough business. Ruthless. You were young when you got into it, lucky enough to have a host spot almost immediately. You didn’t know any better because you didn’t have to fight the way most people did. You had a gift, an advocate, and a lot of luck.”

“An advocate?”

The producer nodded. “Mori.”

Hinata almost gasped. _Mori, _the previous host? They had hated each other.

The producer obviously picked up on this surprise and explained. “Mori was… well, he was an asshole. But he had pull at the station. And he was about the same age you are now, so he was feisty and hot-headed. The ego on that motherfucker…” Hinata was surprised. He’d never heard the producer say anything more daring than “shit”, and even that was rare. “Well, anyway, he had a big family and he helped take care of them. A lot of responsibility. And one of his siblings was in your class. I can’t remember her name now, and they had different last names, so it probably wouldn’t do me much good to try to think of it. She told her Famous Big Brother that there was a boy in her class with the voice of an angel who loved to read poetry. He had the station reach out to you, and you agreed to come in. And, well, the rest is history.”

Hinata sat in stunned silence, trying to coordinate what he knew about Mori with the stranger that the producer was now describing. They just didn’t match up.

“But… I mean, didn’t my teacher recommend me to the station?”

He chuckled. “No, that was Mori’s idea, too. He figured you would be more willing to try it if you were encouraged by someone you knew, not some random asshole on the radio who had heard through the grapevine that you had an angel voice.” Hinata had to admit he was probably right.

“But… but why did he want a co-host in the first place?”

The producer shrugged. “Maybe he was lonely. Maybe he knew he didn’t want to do this forever. Maybe he wanted an out so that after all of his siblings graduated, he could leave to do god knows what. He never said, and we never asked. Well, at least not after the first eight times,” he laughed, that familiar energy returning. He was a born storyteller.

Hinata couldn’t imagine someone like Mori being lonely, especially if he had a big family. Then again, apparently there was a lot he didn’t know about him.

A few more minutes of silence lingered in the car, until the producer spoke up again. “You know, my son’s a big fan of your show. He can only tune in early in the morning, since he gets up to work out with his team at about three, but he likes to listen to you talk, hear you explain things.” Hinata watched the producer, saw his soft smile, rosy cheeks, and relaxed eyes peer over the steering wheel. “A lot of times, he’ll take part of what you say and use it as his motivation for his team. He’s a really talented manager.”

“He must get that from you.”

Surprise shocked his face, and he couldn’t help but glance over at his passenger before looking back towards the road. It occurred to Hinata that he had never really talked to his producer like this before. He didn’t even know he’s had a family.

“What’s his name?”

“Nekomaru. Nekomaru Nidai.” He pulled down the sun visor in front of Hinata and revealed a picture of himself, round and red, a tall, muscular woman, and a young, muscled man, all grinning and laughing for the camera. The young man, who he’d assumed was Nekomaru, was shockingly broad and intimidatingly large, but from the look on his face you could tell he was kind and enthusiastic, probably much like his father.

Hinata made a note of it. Maybe he’d thank Nekomaru on the show tonight.

They pulled up in front of a large concrete building with rows of connected windows breaking the continuity of the grey slabs in between them. The producer dropped him off an went to park the car, and Hinata waited inside for him to return. The floors were patterned tile, and the lobby was small, consisting of an elevator, an abandoned desk, and a directory.

It only took a few minutes for the producer to wander in, and they got in the elevator to the seventh floor. When they entered the office labeled “Writers Weekly”, Hinata was surprised to see a small area with one side packed with about eight desks, and one side set up with a photo studio. He’d never been to a place like this and felt entirely out of his element. For a moment as the door swung open, everyone froze. A young woman with short red hair approached them, holding out her hand. The producer shook first, thanking her for the opportunity, and introducing himself and Hinata.

“My name is Mahiru Koizumi, I’m the photographer here, but I’ll also be doing your interview,” she gave a bright smile, locked her hands behind her back, and cocked her head to the side in a greeting that engaged her whole body.

She guided them to the photography studio and sat them both down in a set of chairs on the corner of the set. The other side of the room was bustling with people and the sound of humming printers. Hinata couldn’t help but stare as they shuffled around at their desks, completely unperturbed by the presence of their two guests. Mahiru’s desk was the only one that sat empty, in the back corner. The walls were an orange-y clay color with large scuff marks. The place smelled of people, but not in an entirely unpleasant way. It was like if everyone had moved into the station hall and slowly brought the place to life.

“Hajime Hinata, do you mind spelling your name for me?”

His head snapped back to her, and she was waiting expectantly with an electronic recorder in hand. He obliged, and they continued.

She asked a lot of questions, tried to joke with him, but Hinata’s exhaustion kept slurring her words and making it difficult to focus. Most questions were simple, uninteresting, unengaging, and he struggled to give answers that could counteract that— “What do you love most about your job?”, “How did you get started in radio?”, “What poets most inspire you?” and so on. By the time she was nearing the end of her list, he was struggling not to fall out of him chair.

“What advice would you give to poets who want to improve their style?”

He started on his canned answer before pausing. He thought about A.I., and about what made them special. He thought about Peko Pekoyama, her love poem. He thought about the people whose poems never got featured, who called in angry and shouting favoritism when they were passed over yet again. What makes them different?

“I would tell them… to feel what they write.” He could feel the producer looking at him and could almost imagine the room go silent around them, all the writers listening, watching intently, wanting to know what he knew. In his mind, all eyes were on him. “Poetry is… vulnerability. It’s understanding. It’s empathy. You can’t find those things in a dictionary or a thesaurus, and you can’t hide a lack of them behind metaphors or structures. And I suppose…” he paused, searching intently for the best way to finish his thought. “I suppose the difference between writing a poem and being a poet is how much of you hurts when you’re done.”

Mahiru looked at him, puzzled, but for the first time in a long time, he felt he finally remembered something that had long since been wiped from his mind.

Other people.

It was nearly one o’clock when he got home, since the photoshoot ran long and Mahiru took so much time to thank them for accepting their offer for a feature. Hinata felt like he was floating, so he sat down on the edge of his bed, kicked off his shoes, and flopped backwards, staring at the ceiling. Fatigue swam through his skull, and his whole body felt like it was rocking. He set an alarm for 2:30, threw his phone down on the bed next to him, and fell asleep without climbing under the blankets.

His alarm went off, much to his dismay, and he pulled himself out of bed to sit in front of his laptop at his kitchen table. He scrolled through each poem, having to reread lines or stanzas that simply didn’t make sense to his tired brain.

Frustrated, he sunk his head into his hands and rubbed his eyes. Maybe a coffee would help.

He made himself a cup and waited for the caffeine to kick in by looking up job openings in his area. Which only served to make him more frustrated and exhausted.

He had been freshly 17 when he was offered a job at the station and took it. He assumed he’d save up money and go to college, but when Mori left during his senior year, he got stuck. He finished school with decent grades, but because he had such a weird schedule, he didn’t have much time to study or do anything besides work. He had never applied anywhere and doubted he had the grades to get into a good school. Not to mention that he didn’t have a clue what he would study if he did decide to apply. Before now, he hadn’t had to worry about money, and it made him nervous. He remembered his parents offering to let him live at home if he needed it, but he’d been eager to leave and so found the cheapest, shittiest apartment that he could that was close to the station. His parents were well off, and he had savings, but he cringed at the idea of asking them for help.

But he was unqualified. He had no experience except for radio, and if that fell through, he didn’t know what he would do. He didn’t even have a resume, and he was too tired to write one now.

He returned to the poems, still struggling to make them comprehensible to his exhausted brain.

But then a smile. Those familiar initials. A.I.

He sat up in his chair and leaned in closer to his screen. And felt his heart stop.

_Him. _That was the title.

His eyes drifted down the page to the rest of the digital ink and began reading.

_His lips, a prelude that buzzes_  
_like black flies on the page,_  
_ vibrating shouts of violin_  
_ on a shuddering white noise stage._  
  
_ His smile, a trembling falsetto,_  
_ swings cross the heart strings taut,_  
_ I hum the coda rev’rently_  
_ each note a euphonic clot._  
  
_ His voice, lyrical in the space,_  
_ baroque dynamic sway,_  
_ dolce are his red melodies_  
_ that stitch themselves in ballet._

It… it’s a love poem.

How could he have been so stupid? A.I. is in love with someone. Of course, they are. If A.I. really is a person, which this certainly implies, then it makes sense that they have feelings for someone. It would be stupid if they didn’t. I mean, even Hinata did, with how little he interacted with others. He just thought—

_Thought what? Idiot, what did you think? That you were in love with A.I.? A random listener? You couldn’t have been in love with them. You’ve never spoken to them, never seen them, never met them. You don’t know how old they are, what gender they are, what they do for a living or for fun, how they act or behave. You can’t love someone if you don’t know them._

But hadn’t he? Hadn’t he known them by the way they wrote? The way they told their stories? The way they made themselves vulnerable?

_No. I never knew them. _

He got up from the table and paced around the kitchen. Suddenly, the idea of fatigue felt distant and foreign, because every inch of his body was vibrating with different, clashing emotions, running into each other at full force. It hurt. Hell, it was excruciating.

He let out a scream. He screamed and screamed. When his voice strained, he screamed harder. When it felt like his throat was going to bleed, he slammed his fists against the table.

What the fuck was wrong with him? When did this start to matter so much?

When would it stop?

_Two weeks_.

Drunk. He pulled up to the parking lot at 6:58, supposed to meet the station owner in two minutes, drunk out of his mind. He staggered into the station, pushed open the door, and stumbled to his seat, next to a worried looking producer and a cold, seething station owner.

“You stink,” Togami said. “Are you drunk?”

“_Maaaaaaybe_!” he replied playfully, leaning on the table and meeting Togami’s eyes with a challenging smile.

The producer cut in before Togami could respond, “I’m so sorry about this, I’ve never seen this happen before with him.” He turned to him sharply and, in a low, scolding whisper, asks, “What are you doing?”

“Me? Oh, I’m _moooooourning_.” He frowned exaggeratedly, pointing this his downturned lips.

“Mourning?” asked Togami angrily. “What are you mourning, exactly? Because it’s about to be your job.”

He got up, leaned even closer to Togami, putting a finger to his own lips, and whispered “It’s a secret.”

Togami slapped him, and his lack of balance sent him reeling to the floor. Togami stood up, towering over a now slightly more sobered Hinata, while the station manager scrambled to his feet to put a defensive arm out in front of Togami.

For a moment, nobody moved. Then Togami took a step backward, turned, and went back to his seat, crossing his arms in front of his broad chest. The producer helped Hinata to his feet and steadied him as he sat back down. Togami sighed.

“Your donation numbers are decent. Borderline. You need to do better. The magazine will run your interview tomorrow morning. This—” he took a folded arm and gestured to Hinata. “—this, however, is unacceptable. If you can’t do your show tonight, I will plan on cancelling it after your two weeks are up. I’m sorry if this is hard to hear and I don’t want to see you go, especially with your potential, but I have a business to run, and _you_ do not have to be a part of it.”

He’s sorry? Somehow, Hinata couldn’t take that seriously. But he was right, he was ruining his own chances of keeping the show by letting this happen.

But what was the point now?

Hinata nodded and apologized, managing to not stumble over his words. The meeting continued, leaving Hinata to mostly sit silent, drink some coffee and water, and hope to fix this.

Hope.

_Roused anew by needled rain,  
coerced to carve my hopes again,_

They cut the meeting short, since everyone seemed a little less in the mood to talk business after everything had happened, and Hinata finished picking out poems to read on air. He didn’t want to read A.I.’s, but it would be suspicious if he decided not to. There weren’t any author’s notes, except a short

_Hope this poem can continue to make you happy. I’m honored._

_ A.I._

There was no explanation, not that he was owed one. Reluctantly, he decided to do it.

He entered the broadcasting room and plopped down on his chair. He suddenly realized how exhausted he was. Instead of getting the much-needed sleep he had been planning on, he drank, read some poems, drank, tried (and failed) to write a poem, drank, half-dialed some phone numbers before hanging up, got a visit from his landlord responding to a noise complaint, and drank some more.

When he swallowed there was a sharp pain in his throat, and he constantly had to restart words because they just didn’t come out at first. The screaming really did him in. It would be a rough show. Still, he opened the broadcast like any other, with his regular intro, and launched into his thoughts on translation of poetry: is it an art all its own?

The first batch of audience submissions contained A.I.’s. He opened his mouth to read it before scrolling to the one below it. This process repeated for the next several hours, until once again it was him and A.I., alone, staring through a screen at each other, glaring.

He glanced up at the camera in the corner of the room and took a deep breath.

“This next one is from a now familiar character, A.I., and it’s titled _Him. _How mysterious!” he said, trying and failing to inject his voice with a degree of playfulness. He wondered how obvious it was that he felt like shit, especially since he probably looked even worse. He dreaded the comments on the next day’s videos.

Focus.

“A.I. has become such a regular, it’s almost odd to not get one from our old friend. In their author’s notes, they write ‘Hope this poem can continue to make you happy.’ Well, I think it will! After all, everyone loves a little continuity. Maybe even as much as A.I. loves _Him._” He felt his smile falter. “Let’s begin.”

He cleared his throat again, trying to stuff down the scream that was rising front deep in his chest. Maybe this would have been easier if he hadn’t still been so drunk.

_“’His lips, a prelude that buzzes/ like black flies on the page, /vibrating shouts of violin__/ on a shuddering white noise stage.’” _He paused, letting each line fill his mind. He hated it.

“’_His smile, a trembling falsetto, /swings cross the heart strings taut, /I hum the coda rev’rently/each note a euphonic clot.’” _He could picture it—a dam in his mind, water building up behind it, the concrete aching as the weight pushed more and more against it.  
  
He swallowed. “’_His voice, lyrical in the space, /baroque dynamic sway, /__dolce are his red melodies/that stitch themselves in ballet.’” _

His voice cracked slightly, almost undetectable, and he’s suddenly choked up. The water was rising, rising, pushing, pushing, and he was at the base of the dam, waiting for it to hit.

“What a poem!” he shouted excitedly, clapping his hands together, letting the shockwave ring through his system. “What a poem indeed…”

The cab pulled up outside his apartment at quarter after four in the morning, letting him step out onto the pavement and take a deep breath of the icy air. As he was walking up the stairs, he reminded himself to thank the producer for getting him a cab, because he was sure he wouldn’t have been able to drive.

As he walked through his doorway, a text came through.

Peko Pekoyama.

He couldn’t bring himself to read it, instead throwing himself down on his mattress and drifting off before his head settled on the pillow.

He woke up at his usual time and pulled himself out of bed. His head was ringing, unable to block out the constant noises from the neighboring apartments. Glancing at the backpack where the laptop was tucked, he shut his eyes and decided that now would be a great time for a bath.

The water poured over him, tickling the hairs on the back of his neck as he leaned forward, elbows on knees and head in hands. He splashed himself and repeatedly pulled on his cheeks, trying to get some semblance of life to return. Staring at the drain, he wondered what it would be like to dissolve and let himself slip through it.

_I’ve got… nothing, _he thought to himself. _Absolutely nothing. _

There was a darkness over him, looming. The world suddenly seemed much greyer than he had remembered it being, and the room smaller and stuffier. If only had bothered to decorate the walls a bit when he’d moved in.

He considered calling in sick, not going in at all, just calling it done and letting the show die. Letting everything die. He opened the laptop. The submissions page glared back at him.

Business as usual.

But it wasn’t. He couldn’t understand why he had reacted that way in the first place. Had he really been so interested in a random person’s half-decent poetry to get drunk, drive to work, and almost get himself fired?

_Or killed. _

He laughed at it. That thought bounced around like a screensaver in his brain, bumping into the walls and lighting whatever it touched. His thoughts drifted from here to there wherever that thought went. Could have been dead. Ha. Ha.

He opened up the YouTube channel page to find, unsurprisingly, a new upload, the usual “highlights” reel of the previous nights’ show, or whatever passed for highlights in poetry radio. The view count was slightly better than the previous one, and they had been regularly getting more popular, which he supposed was a good thing if he wanted to keep his job (which, at that moment, was not something he was sure of anymore). He clicked the thumbnail and let the video play as he scrolled down to the comments section.

writesomereadsome:_ someone’s got a secret admirer ;)_

“What?” he muttered to himself indignantly, squinting at the comment.

Fukawa Luver: _Wow, this AI person has some serious balls._

auroraboredialis: _geez, all this time i thought flirting with the host was off limits! what a girl. she was really in it for the long game lol._

Confusion squeezed at Hinata’s face. He found himself leaning closer to the screen. There weren’t many comments, but there were a lot more that usual, and most of them said something very similar.

Frantically, he reached for his phone, and saw the notification from Peko that he had ignored last night. He opened it and immediately felt his throat swell shut.

_Oh my god, Hinata. That poem was so beautiful. Maybe I should have taken lessons from A.I.! _

He called her, let the phone’s ringing take over all of his senses. She picked up.

“Hello?”

“Peko,” he found himself almost shouting into the phone. He swallowed and continued. “The, uh, your text. Wh—”

“Oh, about the poem? Was it rude? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to be. After all, you helped me confess to Fuyu—”

“No, uh, no, of course not. What, uh, what were you talking about?”

The line went silent. For a moment, he thought she hung up on him, but he checked the screen and they were still connected. He reached the phone back up to his ear and waited.

“Uh, Hinata-kun? You… you do realize that poem was a love confession, right?” Her voice was careful, slow, tenuous.

“Yeah, of course I do,” he muttered, annoyed. It was pretty clear. And it was driving him insane.

She chuckled lightly. “No, uh, I don’t think you do.”

“Wh—”

“That was a confession for _you._”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta love Hinata being a clueless idiot (Chapter 3 of the game, anyone? Definitely didn't coordinate that on purpose ;) Anyway).


	4. The Big Man on Campus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a head with Hinata's investigation and Togami's decision, and Hinata must face up to the reality that he now has in front of him.

His mouth dropped. There was so much vying for the forefront of his mind that they just kept pushing each other under, creating waves of incomprehensible thoughts.

“_What?_”

“Hinata-kun, that, um, that poem was clearly meant for you. There’s almost no other option.” Her voice was clear, but between the phone and his ears something got jumbled.

He just wanted to shout. _You’re not making any sense! That doesn’t make sense! Me? _

“I mean, think about it. You had to have noticed that it pretty much only talked about your voice, right? And they’ve been sending poems fairly frequently, so they’ve probably been a fan for a while.”

As she was talking, he pulled up the poem on his computer, reading it over line by line.

“Vibrating shouts of violin/ on a shuddering white noise stage.” _A stage? Could that mean the radio?_

“His smile, a trembling falsetto”—_but how could they know what my smile looked like? _

Of course. The YouTube videos.

“I hum the coda rev’rently/each note a euphonic clot_._”_ That’s… that’s weird, isn’t it? Hum the coda… you’d have to know the song. So, they were reading along when I was discussing their poems. Of course, that makes sense. “_Euphonic clot,” _that’s probably a metaphor, uh… like putting fingers on violin strings, which is was they said earlier, except they said heartstrings, so I’m playing on their heartstrings. _

“Hinata, are you there?”

“His voice.” _My voice. _

He swallowed. “I’m here.”

“Do you… do you know who this is?”

He paused, then shook his head. “No.”

Silence, on her side this time. “Do you want me to find out?”

He found himself walking down the street again, though more briskly than before, and this time, he had his backpack slung over his shoulder, hands tucked in his pockets, looking around the street frantically, as if someone would come up to him and yell “Hey, I’m A.I. and I’m in love with you!”

No such luck struck him and that remained an anxious fantasy. When he turned into the coffee shop he was greeted by a calm, familiar face and a cup of coffee.

Peko gestured to a nearby table, and they both sat down. He immediately pulled out his laptop and passed it over to her, and she opened it up, looking through the tabs he’d left open.

One of them was a call log from the show, listing all the numbers that had contacted them and how long they were on the line. There were a few frequent callers whose voices he knew well, but that and the list was all the indication they had on that front. Another tab was a collection of A.I.’s poems. The final was a list of donors and their phone numbers, which definitely shouldn’t have been shared with anyone, much less someone Hinata had met once, but he began to realize he was desperate.

Peko stared at the screen for a few moments and nodded to herself. “These are the complete logs?”

Hinata nodded nervously.

Peko nodded, then reached into her bag and pulled out a small, black, rectangular shape. Looking closely, he could see it was a flash drive. She held it up for him to see, asking “Do you mind?”

He shook his head. For some reason, he just couldn’t talk. Was he just nervous? Or genuinely afraid? And afraid of what?

She jammed the flash drive into the side of the computer and waited for whatever magic she was about to work to kick in.

Hinata had always imagined moments like these exactly as they were shown in movies—fast, concentrated typing in a dark, in a nondescript room in front of six monitors. Black screens with green scrolling text. Someone to smugly declare, “I’m in,” when the deed was done. But this wasn’t exactly hacking, and most of what he watched Peko do was wait and scan the screen with her eyes, the white glare on her glasses obscuring his vision of her pupils. She looked up at him, smiled, and pointed at his coffee.

“Drink that and calm down. It’ll take a few minutes.” He did as he was told.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, she turned the laptop back to him and on the screen were four phone numbers in different colors. The one at the top was green, the two below it were yellow, and the one below that was black. Without him asking, she immediately explained, “The program I used just cross checks data. On the phone number list, it found the most frequent callers. Then, it compared them to the list of donors. Finally, it compared active times to the times the poems were submitted. Those four numbers are the people who matched up best, in order.”

He looked up at her, dumbfounded. “What do you do for a living, again?”

“It’s possible they aren’t on that list,” she said seriously, ignoring his question. “But those people are… they’re good bets.”

“Can’t you, like, trace the submission? With an IP address?”

She shrugged. “I’m sure someone could. I can’t. The website has a security system and, admittedly, I’m not great with computers.” That seemed ironic to him, seeing as she just spent five minutes with three files and was able to come up with four phone numbers, something he probably couldn’t have done given five hours. His original plan, after all, was just to call them all, in order, under the guise of soliciting donations. But it was, he guessed, whatever program she used from that flash drive that found the numbers and not her. “And the stuff I did could have been done by hand, but since I figured you’d want this faster,” she pointed to the flash drive. “Voila. I don’t have a program that can get IP addresses, though.”

Hinata’s shoulders fell, and he let his eyes drop to the screen. She pushed it closed. He let out a breath and took a sip of his coffee, trying to let everything process. There was silence for a moment, but it was what he needed. Through a great deal of effort, Hinata allowed himself to sit and talk with Peko for a while before leaving. As he started to gather his things back into his backpack and get up from the table, Peko stopped him.

“I wanted to thank you, by the way.” She smiled at him. “For the help.”

He smiled back. “You just did.”

By the time he walked back to his apartment, it was nearly 4:00. He still had to pick out poems for the show tonight and look for a job. And maybe call a few numbers.

There weren’t any more submissions from A.I., but there were a much larger number in general. He realized that it was likely because of that magazine, and that photographer… Mahiru, was it? He decided to check their website and, sure enough, there was a digital copy available for a couple hundred yen. He paid, then flipped through the electronic pages until he found a picture of himself, smiling. He could hardly remember smiling at all during that interview or shoot simply because he had been so tired, but Mahiru had managed to capture one that looked so sincere and genuine that you would never have guessed. The title read, “Poetry Goes Live Wire: The Local Radio Personality Bringing Poetry Back to the Community.” He felt she had been a little too generous with such a title, but he continued. The rest of the article was well written and pretty straightforward. She had quotes, cropped perfectly to make him look like a saint, and accompanying quotes from apparent long-time listeners. None of their names or speaking styles sounded familiar, and none of their initials were A.I.

But something surprised him. There was a small section toward the end titled, “How Much it Hurts.” It talked about vulnerability, and art, quoting him as saying “Poetry is vulnerability… It’s empathy. You can’t find those things in a dictionary or a thesaurus, and you can’t hide a lack of them behind metaphors or structures… The difference between writing a poem and being a poet is how much of you hurts when you’re done.” And Mahiru. Mahiru saying, in bold, permanent ink, that she’d always imagined that that was what it meant to love.

“Hello?” A soft, mousy voice came through the speaker.

Hinata swallowed. “Hello? Uh, is this—”

“Is this Hajime Hinata?”

He froze, startled by her recognition. “Um, yeah, it is. I was just—”

“I’m not A.I.” The voice was short, direct, by still came across as if whoever was using it was somewhat consumed in a daydream.

“Oh, uh, I just...”

“It’s okay. My name is Chiaki Nanami. I’m a fan of your show. I figured after last night you might want to try to find them.” It sounded like she was smiling. “Well, I hope you do.”

Hinata couldn’t help but sigh, disappointed. This was the last number. “Thank you. Um,” he paused, trying to think of something better to say. “Thank you.”

He was expecting her to hang up. When she didn’t, he expected himself to hang up. Neither happened.

“Hey, hey. Don’t lose hope.”

“What?”

“You sound really sad. And you also sound like you want to say something. I think.” He listened to her talk quietly into the receiver. “If you want, you can talk to me.”

“I, uh.” She was being very forward and startlingly perceptive for someone who sounded like she could fall asleep at any moment.

“You know what I like about your show?” A pause. “Your empathy. I think sometimes you forget it, but in order to understand all of the poems you read, you have to have empathy for every single person who submits a piece. That has to be exhausting.”

He’d never thought about it like that. It was always second nature to him to understand, to analyze, to pick apart. But in refraining from criticism, he’d always had to look for the good things in people’s writings, and in people.

So why couldn’t he see it in himself?

“I think you probably don’t have many people in your life. That kind of work can wear you out, maybe. Being vulnerable all the time… is probably hard.”

There was a long gap of silence. The white noise tickled.

“Chiaki,” Hinata finally said. “I don’t…” but nothing else followed those words, and silence fell again.

For a moment, he wondered if she was asleep.

“I’ve always wondered what it would sound like to have someone read my thoughts back to me.” Her voice was slightly stronger, but still almost singsong. “I hear my own all the time, I think. But it sounds different when someone is trying to actually understand you. It’s a lot more…” she paused. “Kind.”

Silence occupied a majority of the rest of the call. At one point, she definitely did fall asleep, but the way she responded when he brought it up made him think that he shouldn’t acknowledge it. They hung up shortly after.

He looked down at his phone as it buzzed, alerting to a new text message.

_Games at my house, XXX XXXXXXX Street, any time before your broadcasts._

He smiled. _Thanks Chiaki. See you soon._

The rest of the designated two weeks was spent much as Hinata had expected—in front of other people. He saw himself on the break room TV one day when he walked into the station. Another day, someone had asked him for a picture on the street because she’d recognized him from the YouTube videos. Almost half of the days each week, he was doing interviews of some kind for some publication. Apparently, Mr. Togami still had his fingers on a lot of puppet strings, and he was pulling all of them.

But what wasn’t there was A.I. As more poems flooded the submissions page, A.I. was noticeably absent. And notice people did.

A few pieces were signed A.I. but none of them were actually them. People were disappointed when no more of their submissions were aired. They speculated that Hinata had somehow made them leave after being creeped out by the confession. Others wondered if maybe they panicked and stopped submitting because of the attention they got. People were throwing names and theories out left and right, but no one came forward with credible evidence and no one took credit for the poems.

Meanwhile, Hinata was doing whatever he could to block them out. With no leads as to the identity of A.I., he found himself spending a lot of time with Chiaki, who turned out to be very into video games. Most of the time he’d watch her play, but sometimes she would hand him a controller and let him get absolutely crushed in whatever he was playing against her. They became incredibly good friends in a very short period of time, and she became the only one who knew how hard he was looking for A.I. Sometimes, he’d just sit in the room and make phone calls, or browse local publications, or read comments, trying to find something that stuck. She also became the only one who knew how much danger the show was in.

But it was the last day of week two, and there were still no submissions and no new leads, and the theories died down as people moved on. Maybe it was for the best. After all, he’d learned a lot along the way. He’d made friends with both Peko and Chiaki, and even started talking to the producer’s son, though these communications took place over the phone due to Nekomaru’s inconvenient travel schedule. Maybe he could give up on finding A.I. and move on, continue his show, find a new place in this world and do better.

But as Hinata made his way to the conference room to meet with the producer and Mr. Togami, he almost thought his legs would stop working entirely.

As he opened the door, he was surprised to find that there were many people surrounding the table, some of whom he recognized and some he didn’t.

All eyes locked on him and he forgot how to move. The air was stiff and hard to breathe, or maybe it just seemed that way. The producer gestured to his usual seat next to him, and he shakily made his way towards it.

When did this start to matter to him?

When A.I. started to matter to him, too.

Togami leaned forward and crossed his arms on the table. “Let’s get this meeting started.” His voice was strong and even, business-like and unemotional. This was the world he was used to, and he wasn’t on the chopping block, but Hajime was.

He began thinking about all the hours doing interviews, begging for donations, getting his picture taken, wandering around being led by the neck like a dog on a leash. Would Togami cut him off after he’d moved mountains to give him a second chance, even willingly forgotten about him showing up to work drunk? He almost let himself doubt that he would, and maybe even had some faith in Togami to be lenient. He’d shown himself to be a ruthless businessman, but not entirely unaware of the human cost behind each move.

“As all of you know, this station is performing average numbers at best. Some of the shows are very successful, others,” Hinata thought he’d noticed him glance towards his seat, but it could have been his imagination. “Not so much.” He felt a pang.

One of the people that looked familiar to Hinata cut in. “Um, sir, I do have a question. Is this…” he swallowed. Hinata tried to remember who he was, but unfortunately drew a blank. “Is this final? Even if our numbers started going up significantly, if they didn’t reach a, uh, I don’t know, a cutoff, are we… gone?”

The room fell silent for a moment. Gone. That meant so much more to everyone than performance or numbers. There or not there. Working or fired. Here or gone.

Mr. Togami continued. “Yes. All decisions are final. They take into account rate of growth and improvement, but each of you had a cutoff, to use your words, that you were expected to meet. This was decided by the investors here—” he said, gesturing to the men in suits that dotted the table. “—and failure to meet those numbers based on our expectations for your individual shows means that your show is cancelled, effective next week.”

But it was already Friday, and Hinata didn’t have a weekend broadcast slot._ This could be my last show. _That was the only thing he could think. _This could be my last show. _

“I want to get this all out of the way early on so we can discuss details with all of you, so let’s just get to the point. If you look around the room, you hosts are the ones who were struggling the most. And most of you didn’t make it. I appreciate the work you put in to improve, as many of you were very close, but that doesn’t mean anything to me, to be quite frank. So, the shows that were cut…”

He picked up a paper that had been turned over in front of him and started reading. Silence filled the room as the first one’s were listed out, broken only by short, surprised shrieks or gasps, and occasionally, sputtering sobs that refused to be masked.

Hinata listened carefully. He knew these people, though he’d never considered them his friends. He finally recognized the man who had spoken up. _Oh, _he thought absently, _he was the person who had did his orientation when Mori blew him off. I remember now._

Togami’s voice continued in the background. Each line he read was line the snapping of a string. Shows he’d listened to when he was still in high school were over, just like that.

Including his.


	5. The Librarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here it is. The final official chapter of the story. How will Hinata face forward with all that he had lost?

He ended up in the hallway, the fluorescents swarming around him in fast rotating circles. He couldn’t remember leaving, but he found himself stumbling on the tile and falling against the wall. He hunched over and vomited.

Behind him, a loud crack, a door slamming open, and the labored shuffling of the producer’s footsteps running up behind him. He heard his name, but everything else was a distant murmur. His arm was suddenly thrown around the producer’s shoulder, and he was being heaved off down the hallway into the bathroom. The room spun. He felt sick, all his senses buzzing and overloaded.

A wet lump of paper towel brushed over his forehead, bringing him slowly back down to his senses. He was slumped against the wall next to the sink, the producer kneeling in front of him with a concentrated look on his face.

After locking eyes with Hinata, he finally spoke. “Are you okay?”

Hinata laughed, though it burned his throat. Tears welled up in his eyes. “I’m, ha,” he swallowed, the saliva sticking to his throat. “I’m doing great, thanks for asking.”

A moment of silence hung in the air between them.

“I didn’t…” the producer started, warily, choked up. “I didn’t know. I thought… well, with how hard you worked and how well the, uh, the channel was doing… and the listener numbers… the number of submissions almost doubled… the donations were…” he trailed off.

Hinata swayed slightly, let the producer continue to dab his face with the soggy lump of rags, and allowed the silence to swell uncomfortably, filling the room with hot, tacky unease.

Tonight would be his last show.

He hadn’t had a chance to prepare a goodbye. To thank people. To think of the right things to say. He’d been so caught up in trying to get through each day and find A.I. that he hadn’t even considered that he would actually… lose.

He glanced at his watch. It had only been ten minutes since he’d walked into that conference room, and yet in that time everything had been sunk. Had he not heard the sirens?

“Mr. Nidai,” he finally sputtered, the tiredness in his voice heaving, lead soaked. The producer seemed startled to here Hinata use his name. “If… if it’s alright, I’m going to take some time before my show to… plan, I guess.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll… I’ll make sure Togami understands. Your room isn’t taken right now, so go ahead and use that.”

Hinata nodded, then struggled to his feet. Guided by the producer, he walked down the hall and waited outside the conference room for him to bring his backpack out to him, before wandering back past his vomit puddle to his broadcast room.

It was more silent than he had remembered. The sound proofing had never made everything feel as muffled, muted as it did now. In this room he realized that he was entirely alone. He sat down at the desk and stared blankly at the camera in the corner, no red light blinking—peacefully asleep.

_Maybe this is a dream. _He could almost believe it. The room felt somehow unfamiliar, yet it whispered to him old memories. He let his eyes wander across the technological landscape on his desk—the fancy broadcast mic that should have been replaced three years ago, the sound control board, a braided tangle of cords piling themselves onto an overloaded electrical strip. Definitely a fire hazard.

It was honestly more of a nightmare.

The phone was ringing in his hand. He didn’t remember taking it out of his pocket, didn’t remember dialing any numbers, but it was ringing. And to his surprise, he picked up.

“Hello?” The voice cawed smoothly. Hinata didn’t respond. “Hello, who is this?”

“Mori?”

There was a pause on the other end. “Ah.”

“It’s Hinata. Hajime Hina—”

“I remember you, kid.” The deep voice on the other end laughed playfully. “You sound like hell. Why are you calling me?”

How could he put everything into words? He hadn’t yet convinced himself of his new reality, and his chest tightened at the thought of saying it aloud, as if by keeping it trapped in his lungs it wouldn’t be able to take form. He thought of Peko’s love confession. He had to. He swallowed.

“The, uh, the station.” He felt his eyes burning, tears pooling themselves behind and pushing, struggling to get out. He tried to hold them back.

His body was wracked with an unexpected sob, and the dam broke. He heaved forward and dug his hand into his hair, crouched over in the faux leather chair, smelling the familiar plastic. He choked and coughed roughly, emptying his lungs until he felt like he was dying, but still the sobbing continued. Again and again, like a skipping CD, he heard _It’s over. It’s over. It’s over._

“Hey, uh, kid.” The voice from the other end said, sounding wary, but warm and compassionate. “Can you take a deep breath for me?”

That almost seemed out of the picture, but he tried. The tears ran over his lips and into his mouth, bitter and salty.

“Good, good, kid. Just keep trying to breathe. Take your time.” Hinata squeezed his eyes shut and willed his lungs to expand and contract, draw the air in and force it out. Slowly, this ritual helped him catch his breath, though dizziness lingered in his skull. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“They’re cutting the show. It’s done.”

Mori’s only response at first was puzzled silence. Then, the buzz of his voice came through the line again. “Kid, I… I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know what to do.” The panic started to force itself into his chest again. He made himself breathe, though the effort felt almost excruciating. “This show, it’s all I have.” There was a pause as he struggled to keep a degree of poise, or at the very least keep from falling apart again.

Silence.

Why did Hinata call Mori of all people? He was a stuck-up asshole who he hadn’t seen in years. He hadn’t even been angry at him when he initially left, but over the years he had crafted a grudge to hold against him, to justify his rage. Yet the second he was scared, he called Mori.

He finally replied. “Do you know why I left the station?” Hinata shook his head, even though he knew Mori couldn’t see him. Regardless, he continued unprompted. “It’s… a long and complicated story. I have a lot of family. You may or may not know that. But, uh, the reason for that is… well, I’m a Togami. Or at least I was.”

That name whirred in his mind and his stomach bubbled. Togami.

“My family has… weird traditions. Weird rules. And lots of kids. Dad has them all compete to take control of the “empire” or whatever. Well, long story short, I wasn’t the chosen heir, so I left, followed by some of my siblings. We all changed our names, moved on with life. I started my show at that station.” Hinata swallowed, feeling guilty. As long as _he_ had run this show after having been roped into it, unsuspecting, _Mori_ was the one who had built it from the ground up. And yet Hinata had all but buried it. He looked down at the chair. _Here lies Hajime Hinata._

“I was happy there. I felt like I’d earned that. But my dad, businessman extraordinaire, bought the station a few years later. So… I left. I didn’t want to be trapped by him or be another disappointment under his watchful eye and even more watchful thumb.” He sighed. “The point I’m making is, well, I made a decision. But it wasn’t really… my choice. If that makes sense.” Somehow it did, at least to Hinata’s swimming brain at that moment. “You don’t always get the best options. And sometimes when you do get the best options, they’re taken from you. It’s highway robbery, but it’s life. And your job isn’t to fight it, or change it, or salvage it. Those are options, yeah, but with my dad in particular… well, they’re catch 22s. Your job is to throw all of that away and pick your own option. Say goodbye and don’t look back.”

Hinata couldn’t bring himself to respond. He was terrified of that.

“It…” he sighed. “I, um, I don’t believe in fate. I don’t think that destiny exists. If there are gods, they are probably passed out drunk in the corner at best, or actively throwing monsters down onto the surface of the planet to wreak havoc just because they can.”

Hinata’s brain sung: _All the stars in all the skies, their sparkling teeth, their glaring eyes, stare down on all the little ants, point magnifiers, watch them dance. _

“But I don’t think you need fate. I think things work out because we make them work out. People look at that and call if fate, or destiny, or luck, but I think that’s just people being stubborn bastards. So Hinata?”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah?”

“Be the most stubborn bastard there ever was.”

The first order of business was to start the show, greet everyone with a smile and a calm, steady voice. The second, he decided, was to not break down as he told them what was to come. Still, he couldn’t help but to take a moment to throw his head back and slump down in his chair, burying his face in his hands and rubbing at his eyes. They burned a bit from the past hour, spent crying and staring at piece of notebook paper where he tried to get some form of organization together for his show. His last show. He folded his hands across the table and looked over to the camera in the corner or the room, now roused and staring in anticipation. The skin under his eyes ached from the assault of tissue after tissue. He shoved himself forward on the seat and into a tall, relaxed, and confident position, using what seemed like all of his energy just to take a breath.

The faded red broadcasting light blinked on, and Hinata let out an anxious sigh.

“Hello, my lovely listeners, my name is Hajime Hinata and we’re going to have a lot of fun tonight.” He winced. “Whether you’re tuning in from the 24/7 convenience store or the comfort of your own room, there’s a world of words out there, and we’re out excavating it tonight. Together. But first,” he said, glancing down at the paper in front of him. There were tear marks speckling the page, causing parts of it to swell. He closed his eyes and gathered himself. “First, I have an important announcement to make.”

The silence filled the air. He had to say it.

_Don’t hesitate too long, _the voice echoed in his head. It was Mori’s. Fractions of a second were precious on the air.

But for a moment, the silence was all he could think to use, because nothing he said could have meant more than that dead air.

He sighed through a peaceful smile. “This is it. This is… the last broadcast. I’ve been hosting this show for eight years, almost a third of my life. Yet during that time, it became all of my life. And,” he paused, swallowing back the tears that were rising up. They still leaked through, but he was okay with that. He looked into the camera, tried to imagine each individual listener independently locked raptly in attention to his every word. “And I got to share that with you. My listeners. My students, if you don’t mind me saying. But also… also my most valuable teachers.”

Over the years, he had become two separate people—one a charismatic, natural performer, and the other an isolated, lonely child. Tonight would be the most important show, yet it would not be a show. It would be a conversation with not the entertainer, but the child.

“I’ve had the wonderful ability to make mistakes on this show. To be vulnerable. To help others be vulnerable. I’ve… learned… over and over what it means to experience something entirely alone, then have someone reach out a hand and say, ‘You too, huh?’”

There was bile in his throat. He felt it burning through his voice. But he had too much to say, so he continued, unperturbed.

“I, uh,” he sighed. “I didn’t… prepare… well. But I guess I can be… somewhat thankful for that. If I’d had the time, I’d have built walls so high that… well, that I couldn’t be honest with you all. So I hope you can share your night with me, if only for a little bit. Because this…” he laughed, openly, honestly. He felt the warmth of his tears as they held hands in front of his vision, blinding him. He grimaced.

“This hurts.”

The phone lines were flooded. Hinata had to sheepishly establish a time limit on calls. Most people were relatively calm if somewhat surprised, but reactions ranged from furious shouting to distraught begging. When one person was told that they had to end the call soon, they burst into tears, muttering indistinguishably on the end of the line. One person called the station twenty-two times in one hour.

As much as Hinata tried to keep the smile up, the phones rolling, the show entertaining, no one wanted to treat things like business as usual, including him. Still, he did his best to stick to his improvised schedule. It got harder as the night went on. Maybe it was the loneliness of the early hours, but Hinata’s heart felt like it was pumping molasses and his whole body felt heavy.

“We’re going to open the lines again,” he said. The second he pressed the button, the floodgate roared. He answered the first person.

“Hinata-kuuuuuuuun!~” came a high pitched, slurred voice. “You can’t shtop the _show_-ah! _Hic._” They were clearly drunk.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT’S THE LAST SHOW? I JUST STARTED LISTENING! YOU CAN’T FU—”

“Awww, but what about the mystery secret admirer? You’re going to leave us hanging?” This made Hinata blush.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut off the phones for now. Because I want to give these submissions their chance to be heard. And I also have a surprise for you all at the end of the show, so please, be patient!” He found himself bowing to the mic in the empty room, but somehow it felt full of improvised, imagined faces. The flurry continued.

Hinata looked down at his schedule, then up at the clock.

It was the final hour of the show.

He sighed into the mic. “I really appreciate you all tuning in. Would you look at the time! It’s three a.m. My insomniac listeners, I’m afraid it’s time for me to take over for this last hour. I…” he held his breath for a moment, imagining the words as they took shape. “I have some stories I want to tell. I hope you can listen.” He imagined a collective silence. The faces sat, wide-eyed, listening.

“I… I’m tired. Ha ha. I’ve sat in this room for countless hours, meeting you through your words. But all this time, I felt alone. My voice could be in ten rooms or millions, but I’m always… here. Staring at the grey soundproofing blocks. I forgot that people could hear me. Until recently.”

He allowed himself to just talk. He gushed about a beautiful, mysterious woman who approached him in a coffee shop and reminded him what it meant to be honest. He rambled about a kind, round man who filled the room with his boisterous narrations and told him the story of Hinata’s own life from a vantage point he’d never seen before. He waxed poetic about a simple, hardworking photographer that reminded him why we use words in the first place. He apologized profusely to a man, one who probably wasn’t even listening, for seeing his claws as a means of attacking instead of protecting.

And lastly, he thanked a stranger. A stranger whose name and face he didn’t know, whose voice he had likely never heard, and whose heart he knew entirely.

Then he thanked his audience, smiled, and signed off.

It had been only three weeks since he had left the radio station, but to Hinata it felt like an eternity. He found it extremely hard to break his sleep cycle or establish a routine. What he’d hoped would be a brave new start had more or less hidden behind the bed and shot darts at him every time he approached it.

He tried not to think about what he left behind.

He’d had to get a new laptop when he left, since the one he’d been using belonged to the station. The one he got, quite frankly, was a piece of shit, but he’d still dipped into his savings to get it. He could live comfortably for a few months, probably, before he’d have to consider asking his parents for help. He spent most of his hours job hunting.

Pages of pages of listings turned to dust when he filtered by qualifications. Applications he had submitted never got any return calls, except one, from a sweet shop owner across town, whose college-aged daughter had listened to his show a few times and wanted to have him proofread a poem for her class. He didn’t hear back again after.

He had, however, decorated his walls. With all the DIY "skills" he had, he taped print outs of his favorite poems into a large collage that took up the entire wall across from his dining room table. In the center was one that was so familiar by now that he recognized it by the shape of its stanzas.

_An oaken spine holds aloft my head,_  
_beneath the hourglass I’m led_  
_ by hand to face his sunken form,_  
_ embraces cold, misted breath warm._  
  
_ I skin the tree and peel its flesh,_  
_ carve numbers in the space it left_  
_ submit my lotto to the brook,_  
_ for Earth to steal, a whimsied crook._  
  
_ He spends my riches, has them mugged_  
_ saunters streets—dismal, drugged;_  
_ skin caked in deluded mud and tree_  
_ his oceans wander back to me._  
  
_ Roused anew by needled rain,_  
_ coerced to carve my hopes again,_  
_ return them to the current drift_  
_ to give willingly a reluctant gift._

_\- A.I._

He hadn’t been able to find A.I. before he left, and now he had nowhere to look. Except forward, at their words, as he drank his coffee in the morning. It was in that exact spot that his phone had rung with a call from Chiaki.

“Hey, Chiaki.”

“Hey, hey.” A pause. He was used to her abnormal silences by now. “Have you found a job?”

Hinata sighed. “No, not yet. Most places aren’t exactly looking for a 25-year-old with no experience and a high school diploma.” He laughed. “Well, except the radio station.” He’d seen job listings for the station while he was browsing, but when he called up the producer, he said that Mr. Togami wouldn’t approve his return, even for something like doing paperwork. He hadn’t stepped in that building since that night three weeks ago and didn’t plan to do so ever again.

More silence. “I have one for you, I think.”

Hinata’s jaw dropped open. He had to set his coffee cup down and steady himself on the table. He was staring at that familiar outline on his wall.

“I have a former teacher who works at the library. She said they need someone to replace the librarian who just left, I think. They usually need someone with a degree, but they were interested in your experience. Maybe you can work there.”

“Chiaki, I—” he smiled, shaking his head. Reality, he reminded himself. Stay in reality. “Thank you. Can you send me the info?”

Silence. “Yup.” He could hear her smiling, too.

A library. Well, if he wanted a taste of irony, that was it. He’d spent years talking about poetry and writing, and now (if he got the job, of course) all he was going to do was sit in silence and let it talk to him.

_coerced to carve my hopes again,_

There are worse ironies.

“Um, excuse me, sir?” a voice whispered softly from behind Hinata. He swiveled in his chair and faced the man standing on the other side of the oak check out desk. He was smiling sheepishly, leaning next to the old grey computer. His hair was white and messy, and he squinted so much when he grinned that his eyes disappeared entirely. He had greyish green eyes, like the grass that sat in the frost outside, and thin lips. His voice was light and somewhat boyish, but he looked to be about Hinata’s age. He spoke precisely and evenly, and even his whisper had a certain steadiness and brightness to its tone.

Hinata set his book down and locked eyes with him. He got an odd feeling from him, though he couldn’t tell whether it was good or bad. There was a warmness circling in his stomach.

“Yeah—uh, hello sir, what can I help you with?” He found himself leaning in slightly and dropping his voice to a whisper, matching the stranger’s.

He reached up and put a hand on the back of his neck and let out an embarrassed chuckle. “Ah, that woman told me that I should talk to you about registering a library card. Though, I must apologize for interrupting your reading, I hadn’t noticed…” he trailed off.

Hinata watched the way the corner of his lip twitched with anxiety, but still refused to break a smile.

“Yeah, um, it’s no problem, I just need you to fill…” Hinata rolled backward, pulling open the drawer in front of him. He shuffled through the stacks of late slips and reservation notices, and pulled out a small, rectangular sheet of paper. He looked around for a pen, then placed the two items on the desk. “Just fill this out and show me your I.D., and I’ll…” he dug through the drawer again, this time pulling out a small plastic card, about the size of a driver’s license, that was labeled “XXXXX Public Library.” He closed the drawer and slid back to the desk. “I’ll activate the card for you and enter your information.”

The man thanked him and handed him his I.D. Hinata read it briefly, then swiped the library card and started entering the stranger’s information.

The man slid the paper back to Hinata, and he accepted it without looking up.

“What were you reading?” he asked politely.

“It’s, uh…” he said, trying to maintain his concentration. “It’s a writing book.”

“Oh,” the stranger said, his voice backing off as if sensing Hinata’s frustration. “Okay.”

Hinata kept typing, stumbling over the keys. It was awkward being watched, and he couldn’t help but falter.

“Do you write?” the man asked.

_This guy… _Hinata thought to himself. He tried to cut off the negative thought to make sure it didn’t show on his face, but he felt his lip twitch._ …Sure is… persistent. _“Yeah,” he muttered, not looking up. He handed the I.D. back to him and picked up the piece of paper.

Luckily, the man didn’t respond. Whatever warmth that was sitting uncomfortably in his stomach started to subside. He didn’t know what that feeling was, or even if it was entirely unpleasant, but he was confused by it and couldn’t help being relieved that it was disappearing. He finished typing and clicked the “submit” button at the bottom of the page. It loaded… and loaded…

And crashed.

The whole computer went black. Hinata leaned back in surprise and started clicking randomly, hitting keys, but nothing happened. A tightness started in his lungs and he felt the warmth return with a vengeance, this time spreading to his cheeks and neck. He tried not to appear panicked, but he reflexively hit the monitor with a loud _thud_, to no avail.

“Um… is everything alright?” the stranger asked, concerned. He leaned over the desk to try and see the monitor, his hair brushing against Hinata’s face. He gave him an uncomfortable look but looked back at the screen and saw no signs of life, just his and the stranger’s dark reflections staring intently back at them.

“It, uh…” the stranger leaned away as Hinata continued. “It looks like the computer crashed. I don’t know when I’ll be able to fix it, but I probably won’t be able to register your card today.” Reluctantly, he added, “you can come back tomorrow.”

_What is this feeling? _It was like a pit with something hiding at the bottom. He could hear the creature’s echoes but couldn’t tell what it was.

“Ah, how unlucky!” the man exclaimed, breaking his whisper. He laughed. Hinata couldn’t help but feel relieved at his reaction. Maybe he had been scared that this guy would get angry at him?

He let out a short laugh in return. “Yeah. Geez, I knew these computers were bad,” he said glancing at the blank screen, “but I didn’t know they were _that _close to the end. Guess you never really see that shit coming.”

The man stopped laughing. Oops. He squinted at him for a moment, the smile fading slightly. Hinata didn’t recognize this look. Maybe… curiosity? He just couldn’t put his finger on it.

“You know, I’ve never heard a librarian swear like that.”

He let out a sigh of relief. “Well, you should hear me when I’m not a librarian.”

It seemed like the man wanted to say something, but instead he forced his lips closed, though they remained in a restrained, almost knowing, grin.

They were silent for a moment, just looking at each other (or, in Hinata’s case, slightly to the side to avoid eye contact). The warmth grew more intense, and he could feel it radiating from his whole body. His shoulders tensed up and he could feel his pulse in his legs, his thighs, telling him to run. He sat, frozen. He noticed he had nearly stopped breathing entirely. He took a sharp inhale through his nose and looked away.

The man didn’t leave immediately, just stood for a moment watching Hinata turn in his seat to pick up his book and try to bury himself in it to escape.

“Is that book available to check out? After you finish it of course.”

Hinata was forced to look up. This man looked completely calm, relaxed, with fixed eyes and narrow shoulders. Something hits Hinata in the stomach. It’s familiar, but he can’t place it.

“Uh, yeah, I’m almost done, I can probably set it aside for you to pick up when you come back tomorrow.”

Is he in danger? Is this feeling… fight or flight? _This guy… he doesn’t look dangerous._ But all Hinata wants to do is run or bury his hands in his face or his book. But he also… doesn’t want him to leave.

He smiles. “Ah, yes, if you could do that. Maybe it’ll help me a bit, haha.”

Hinata feels his cheeks grow redder, his eyes widen. He almost wants to cry. He chokes out a, “M-maybe it will. J-just come back tomorrow so we can register your card. The computer should be working by then.” He dipped his head more and raised his shoulders, bringing the book in front of his face as he tried to focus on the words. “I hope.”

“So do I. I hope...” says the voice, but the ringing in his ears almost drowns it out.

Then, muffled, muttered, slowly getting farther away, yet reaching out clear as day.

“Coerced to carve my hopes again.” And a laugh.

_Oh._ Oh that’s what it was. That feeling in his stomach, the one pounding in his head, the one pulling at his legs. The one screaming “go!” over and over again into Hinata’s ears. He recognized it, finally. Usually, it was just a flash, a moment of intense, unbearable impulse. He hadn’t seen it like this is so long, pulling on every part of him at full force, overriding his senses.

It was hope.

Big, scary, overwhelming hope. Hope with teeth and claws and an aura of impending danger. Hope with infinite endings.

He heard his book fall but didn’t remember letting it slip. He was on his feet, the chair rolling backward and hitting the wall with a “clang”. When did that happen? His legs locked, planted themselves unmoving on the grimy, scuffed tile. His mouth fell open, and he could hear himself breathing, feel his chest rising and falling. He had the most intense tunnel vision he’d ever experienced, and, for a moment, he thought he felt himself fall to the ground and pass out, but he wiggled his fingers and felt his body still locked upright, standing.

The man continued to stride away, seeming not to notice, before suddenly pausing and snapping his head around, apparently, to the sound of Hinata’s voice.

“Nagito Komaeda…” Hinata was looking down at slip of paper still sitting at the base of the computer. Clear as day, written in the name slot, was the name Nagito Komaeda. He said it again, letting the syllables linger. “Nagito. Komaeda.”

The man looked puzzled, still half turned in his escape. He had his brows furrowed and head cocked to one side as if trying to make sure he was hearing correctly. “Yeah?” he said questioningly.

Hinata let out a weak laugh. “That’s… that’s your name?”

The man—Nagito—nods.

Hinata felt his body sway, saw a look of concern cross Nagito’s face, but somehow, he remained standing.

“And…” he took a deep breath. “And what about…”

His throat went dry. He swallowed, but it didn’t seem to help. _Say it. Make it real. Say it. _

Nagito’s eyes didn’t pull away, not even for a second. It seemed to both of them as if they were teetering on the edge of an eternity, waiting to fall in.

His voice came out as a whisper, though he wasn’t sure if it have come out at all. “A.I.?” The stranger—no, Nagito Komaeda, his name was Nagito Komaeda—didn’t react. Hinata gulped feeling his tongue awkwardly in his mouth. “Are you…” he sighed, trying to get the tension to leave his body. It refused. “Are you A.I.?”

Nagito’s eyes widened. Falling into eternity. He didn’t turn, didn’t move, didn’t answer. _Do I run? _The words filled his thoughts. _Do I run?_

There was quiet. Absolute quiet. Except both people were certain that everyone else could hear their hearts beating, the skipped pulses. _Thump. Thump. Thump. _Pause. _Thump._

Nagito felt his lips pull into a disbelieving smile, his eyebrows lifting, knitting themselves in surprise. He took a breath in, let it get trapped in his throat so he would stop breathing entirely.

He had recognized Hinata the second he walked in the door.

But Hinata… Hinata recognized _him._

How could he answer him? He could barely breathe. His face twitched, legs wobbled. He had to say something before he either cried or collapsed.

He turned and faced him, swallowing. “_Astra inclinant_,” he said breathlessly. “_Sed non obligant._” Hinata nodded, but he didn’t know what that meant. He just didn’t know if he could do anything else in that moment. Nagito took a careful step back towards the desk. “Someone… someone who submitted a poem… used that phrase. Do you remember it?”

He hung there, unable to shake his head. No, of course not. He tried to scan his memories, but the tidal wave of pounding blood kept pushing him back. He’d read thousands of poems, but most of them were nonsense anyway, and he couldn’t so much as think of his own name at that moment. Trying to remember would have been an exercise in futility. He remained unmoving, unspeaking.

“It’s Latin.” Nagito chuckled. “Pretentious.” Squeezing his eyes shut, he shook his head. “It means ‘The stars guide us; they do not bind us.’ I remember, this was back when you were allowed to criticize people’s work still.” He took another step forward. The closer he got, the more Hinata felt like he was going to pass out. “You said, ‘Cowards hide behind languages they don’t speak and use words they did not write to express ideas they will never understand.’” He laughed. “People were furious.”

It clicked in his head. That was the incident that made Mr. Togami suspend the producer.

“But I was scared… to send you my work. So I was a coward.”

Hinata blinked, then nodded. He understood.

The energy of the room was charged. Any movement was like a cascade of electrocution. People slowly stopped and stared, curious. Books gradually fell into people’s laps, footsteps died, even the slightest whisper was almost entirely halted.

“And…” Hinata swallowed. He couldn’t form a sentence, all language dissolved or drowned. The only words that existed were the ones he was hearing. His fingers tingled.

“And only a coward could love a boy by his voice alone. If that’s what I was, then that’s what I’d use… to hide.” He smiled; his body released. He was standing, body pressed against the desk, a few feet between their tied eyes. “Just like the people who hide behind the words of others. The stars guide us. _Astra inclinant. _A.I.”

He reached out slowly, nervously and grabbed Hinata’s shaking hands in his own. They were hot, uncertain, but familiar. “I guess that didn’t work, huh?” he laughed.

Hinata leaned forward, pulling his hands from Nagito’s and lacing his fingers into his soft, white hair.

And kissed him.

For a moment, he felt Nagito’s jaw tense, but he reached up, grasped the back of his neck and pulled his face in closer.

They hovered in that moment; their lips pressed against each other almost desperately. Hinata squeezed his eyes shut so tight it hurt. Nagito held his breath.

Their mouths separated, but their foreheads remained pressed together. Both of them were afraid to release—Hinata dug his hands further into Nagito’s hair, and Nagito slid his around to rest on Hinata’s smooth cheeks. Heat radiated between them. They felt each other’s breath tickling their skin.

“That speech was so pretentious,” Hinata gasped lightheartedly.

He let out an exaggerated sigh. “Was it really? I’m such an idiot.” He let a playful smile creep onto his lips.

Hinata laughed. “Guess I’m lucky you’re an idiot.”

“Guess so.”


End file.
